The Case of the Persecuted Prosecutor
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: When people who helped convict a killer begin dying themselves, it looks like someone's making good on his threats to see them dead. But when Hamilton Burger is found dead, Perry Mason gets involved. What really happened? And is the body really Burger's?
1. Threats

**Perry Mason**

**The Case of the Persecuted Prosecutor**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! For the many years I've watched _Perry Mason_ off and on, the thing that has intrigued me the most is the interaction between Perry and Mr. Burger. I was disappointed to not find any stories that seemed to explore that, or indeed, any that featured Mr. Burger as a main character at all. So I determined to remedy that. I can't say how quickly this story will be written, as it's partially an experiment, but I have somewhat of an outline and I am hoping that I will get all of it written.**

**Chapter One**

The courtroom was nearly deathly silent when the jury filed into the room. The judge looked to them, his expression impassive. "Has the jury reached a verdict?"

A blonde woman, their spokesperson, stepped forward. "We have, Your Honor," she said. "We find the defendant, Marcus Waden, guilty of murder in the first degree."

Marcus leapt to his feet, his eyes flashing in fury and rage. "You can't do this!" he cried, even as his attorney and the bailiff rushed to try to restrain him. He fought against them, turning to glower at the prosecutor's table. "You'll regret it. _All_ of you! You, and you, and _you!_" He pointed to the judge, the jury, and the district attorney in turn. "I'll get you. Every last one of you!"

The judge banged his gavel. "Order!" he yelled over the hysterical screams. "Order in the court!"

Marcus continued to struggle, his face twisted in hate. The D.A. slowly rose, looking to the frothing man with narrowed eyes. Unable to be calmed, Marcus was being dragged out of the courtroom by the bailiff. He was still shouting threats over his shoulder.

"He sounds as though he means every word."

The prosecutor turned and looked to the police lieutenant, who had stood as well. "He's going to be put away for a long time, Lieutenant Tragg," he said. "He's not going to be able to 'get' anyone."

"Not personally, true," Tragg answered with a nod. "But if he wanted to badly enough, he could see to it that someone is hired."

The district attorney turned his attention to the table, gathering his papers and his briefcase. "I'm sure you'll be looking into that, Lieutenant," he said.

"Of course," Tragg nodded. "But nevertheless, Mr. Burger, you might want to be extra careful for a while."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'm not worried." Mr. Burger finished collecting his belongings, glancing to the doors. Marcus Waden was still yelling out in the hall. Hopefully, Burger thought, this was the last time he would hear anything concerning the disagreeable man.

xxxx

_Second Death Related to Waden Case in the Past Two Weeks_

Hamilton Burger deposited the newspaper onto his desk, not pleased. Three days ago, Anne Harding, a juror from Marcus Waden's trial, had been found dead in her home, badly mutilated but eventually identified. Another juror, Donald Rite, had been discovered in a similar manner three days before that.

The police had no leads on the murderer. It certainly looked as though Waden was beginning to carry out his threat. Of course, he was not talking. He sat silent and smug in his cell, obviously pleased by the deaths—judging from how he smirked when he was asked. But he refused to say whether there had been any involvement on his part, direct or indirect.

A reporter had stopped Burger on his way up to his office, inquiring as to whether he was growing concerned for his own safety. He had replied that No, he was not; he was confident that the police would catch the killer before this went any further.

What was puzzling all of them was, How could Waden have hired an assassin? Since he had made his threat, every one of his visitors was being closely monitored. Unless he had managed to secretly procure a hitman before the verdict had been reached at all, just in case he was found guilty, there did not seem to be any point in time when it could have happened.

Then there was the chance, Burger supposed, that the murders were being committed by a sick supporter of Waden who just wanted to see Waden's threats carried out. Everyone who had attended the trial was being tracked down and questioned, but that could very easily be a dead-end. The culprit could be someone who had never been at the trial at all and had instead read the report of Waden's threats in the newspaper. It had not taken long for the reporters to gleefully get hold of that scoop.

Burger pushed the paper aside, turning his attention to his schedule for the day. He would be busy in court for most of the time. By the time it was over he would be greatly looking forward to going home to relax. The next time he heard anything about the Waden case, he wanted it to be that the killer had been arrested.

The ringing of the telephone startled him out of his thoughts. He lifted the receiver.

"Sir, there's a strange person calling," his secretary Miss Miller informed him. "He won't give his name, but he's insistent on talking to you."

"About what?" Burger frowned. "I need to be in court in ten minutes."

"I don't know, sir. He says he won't tell anyone but you."

"Alright, put him on," Burger said in weary annoyance.

There was a click as the call was put through. "Hamilton Burger?" The voice was muffled and unfamiliar.

Burger was instantly suspicious. "Yes. What do you want?"

"You've heard about Anne Harding and Don Rite. You're next."

Burger rose, gripping the phone tighter. "Who is this?" he demanded. But all he received was a click as the person hung up. He pulled the receiver away, glowering at it, and then slammed it down.

Storming across the room, he hauled open the door and looked to Miss Miller. "Call the police and see if they can trace that call," he ordered.

She looked up with concerned eyes. "Who was it?" she asked as she started to dial.

"That's what I want them to find out," Burger answered.

xxxx

It was well after dark and past eight by the time Hamilton headed for home. After court he had lingered in his office for some time, going over documents for some of his cases. He had all but forgotten the threatening phone call, until Lieutenant Tragg had contacted him to let him know that they had been unable to trace it.

He still didn't know what to make of it. Had the person meant what he had said? Or was it just an unfunny prank? The caller had sounded dead serious.

He glanced in annoyance at an orange Road Closed barrier in his way. He went to the right, taking the only other path possible. There was always some kind of construction on the Los Angeles highways. It was strange, though, that they had started on this job so quickly. And he did not remember hearing that the road would be closed.

The gunshot out the window brought him to full attention. He looked over, shocked. Another car was just behind his on the left. A hand out the driver's side was holding a revolver.

A second bullet shattered the side mirror. Burger pressed on the accelerator, both panicked and angry. In all the time he had served as the Los Angeles County district attorney no one had so blatantly tried to kill him. There had been threats, but no follow-up. This situation did not fall into that category.

And it was strange, how deserted the road was. Had he been observed for some time until he was alone? Or . . . could the Road Closed sign be a fake? Had he been lured here?

The third bullet found its mark in one of the tires. Hamilton clutched at the spinning steering wheel, but to no avail. He lost control of the car as it swerved over the side of the highway and down a hill of drying grass.

Somehow he managed to slam on the brakes at the bottom. Miraculously unhurt, he flung open the door and stumbled out, shaken. The other car was at the top of the hill, stopping for its occupant to get out and peer over the side. Burger fled into the cover of night, hoping to catch a glimpse of the assassin.

From that distance, not much was distinguishable. The man who exited the car was wearing a black suit, with sunglasses to match. He leaned over the edge of the hill, his cigarette smoke floating into the autumn air.

Burger regarded him in annoyance. How cliché could he get?

The hitman started down the hill. Burger kept to the shadows, moving as quietly as possible. If he could make it back to the main road without being seen, he might be able to get hold of a taxi and go to the police station.

He glanced at his watch. 8:46.

The grass crackled behind him. A gun clicked, pressing against the back of his head.

"Sorry, Mr. Burger. I'm afraid your number is up. It's been three days, after all."

The sound of a shot cut through the night.

xxxx

Back at his office in town, Perry Mason was looking over the same newspaper article that had disturbed Mr. Burger earlier that day. He frowned, concerned.

"What is it, Perry?" Della asked, seeing his grim reaction.

Perry glanced over at her. "I was just thinking, Della. If this truly is the work of someone connected with Marcus Waden, as the journalist suggests, is the killer going in a pattern? The two people dead so far were both jurors. Will the other jurors be targeted next?"

Della looked down. "Hopefully the police can figure out who was responsible and get them before anyone else dies," she said.

Perry nodded. "Waden threatened the judge and the district attorney too," he noted.

"I wonder how Mr. Burger is dealing with that," Della remarked.

"Oh, he's probably not worried," said Perry, setting the paper aside.

"Maybe not, but are you?" Della asked.

Surprise flickered in Perry's eyes. Before he could reply, a familiar knock came at the door. He looked over. "Come in, Paul," he called. He frowned, leaning back in the chair. Was it only his imagination or did the knock not sound as sprightly as it usually did?

When Paul opened the door and entered, his all-too-grim expression answered the question. Perry's eyes narrowed further in concern. "What's wrong?"

Paul sighed. "You're not going to like this," he said. "A woman called the police a few minutes ago, saying she heard sounds of a struggle in the house next-door to hers. When they showed up the house was empty, except for a body in the living room."

"Who was it?" Perry demanded, getting out of his chair.

Paul's next words froze him in his disbelieving tracks. "Hamilton Burger."

xxxx

The police were already at the house by the time Perry arrived. Several squad cars were positioned on either side of the property, their red-and-blue lights flashing and coloring the houses and garage doors. An officer at the edge of the sidewalk looked up as Perry got out of his car and approached the driveway. Recognizing him, he gestured for Perry to come over.

"What happened here?" Perry asked, forgoing all manner of greetings. "Was Mr. Burger truly the man killed?"

The officer's eyes flickered in discomfort. "Lieutenant Tragg's inside," he said. "He knows more about what's going on. I'm just here to keep people out. But you can go ahead, Mr. Mason, just for a few minutes."

Perry nodded. "Thank you."

He started up the driveway. Burger's car was parked there, the left side mirror shattered and various pieces of desert brush caught on the windshield and under the windshield wipers. Perry paused to study it a bit closer, lifting a piece of sagebrush between his fingers. What had Hamilton gotten into before coming back here?

He walked in through the open door and into the living room, grim as he took in the scene. The room was in a complete upheaval. Furniture had fallen everywhere. Amidst the toppled lamps and overturned end tables, bloodstains were visible on the carpet. The corpse was covered by a tarp near a small table.

Lieutenant Tragg was near a cabinet, writing in his notepad. At the sound of the footsteps he looked up with a start. "How did you even hear about this murder so soon?" he demanded, peering at Perry in suspicion.

"Paul Drake told me," Perry said. "He heard it from one of your men." He looked to the covering. "Is that actually Mr. Burger?"

Tragg walked away, closer to the body. "We feel quite sure this man was Mr. Burger, Perry," he said. "We'll know for certain soon enough."

Perry was not convinced. "You aren't sure now? Why?"

Tragg sighed. "The body has been very badly mutilated," he said. "But it fits the general height and weight of Mr. Burger. Not to mention it's wearing his clothes." He glanced to the doorway. "The woman next-door says she heard loud voices arguing before the physical struggle began. She identified one of them as Hamilton Burger. She's spoken to him on many occasions; we have no reason to doubt her word."

Perry's visage darkened. "Could the neighbor tell what they were arguing about?" he wondered.

"Not really," Tragg told him. "She heard them just well enough to recognize Mr. Burger's voice, but not to distinguish words. We're going to question all the other neighbors and see if they heard or saw anything."

Perry stepped over near the body as well. "May I?" he asked, reaching for the tarp even as he spoke.

"Go ahead, Perry," Tragg said in resignation. "But you won't be able to tell any better than we could."

Perry pulled back the covering. He recoiled almost instantly. Tragg was right; there was no way he could tell. The body was far too mangled and bloodied. He replaced the tarp, straightening without a word.

"Not a pretty sight, is it?" Tragg said. Anger flecked his voice as he went on, "To think, that Hamilton Burger was brought to this grotesque end."

Perry frowned at the opposite wall. "Something doesn't seem right about this," he said. But what he was unsure of was whether he was correct. Could he just be imagining that this was strange, due to how disturbed and shaken he felt over the idea that this was Hamilton Burger?

"What about Mr. Burger's car?" he spoke at last. "What happened to it?"

"We're not sure," Tragg frowned. "We asked his neighbor if she saw him come home earlier. She said she heard a car, but she couldn't say it was his."

"What time was that?"

"Around nine-forty-five," Tragg said. "And it was after ten when she heard the argument, in case you want to know." He walked past Perry. "Now, you really have overstayed your welcome. Let me get back to work."

"Of course, Lieutenant." Perry crossed back to the front door, then paused. "Do you think this is connected with the murders of the two jurors from the Marcus Waden case?"

"It seems obvious, doesn't it?" Tragg replied, his tone terse and revealing of his own reeling feelings. "We know Mr. Burger was included among the people Waden was threatening."

"Yes, that's true," agreed Perry. "Alright, Lieutenant, I'm leaving."

He stepped onto the porch, pausing again as he stared off into the night. Maybe he would start questioning the neighbors himself. He could not help it; he still believed that something was not adding up. And he was bound and determined to get to the bottom of this murder.

He owed it to his old friend, whatever had happened to him.


	2. Unknown

**Notes: The reporter is not mine. Kudos to anyone who knows from whence he hails! And there is an interesting _Perry_ connection with the correct answer.**

**Chapter Two**

The news that the Los Angeles district attorney had been murdered was out long before morning. By the time Perry was leaving his apartment for work after a restless sleep, a reporter was practically on his doorstep, eager for a story.

"Benjamin Kidd, press," the employee of the fourth estate announced, flashing a press card at him. "Mr. Mason, can I get a statement from you on the death of Hamilton Burger?"

A frown creased Perry's features as he turned to look. The reporter was from a New York paper. He must have been on the first plane to Los Angeles after hearing the news in the middle of the night. Just how desperate was he for a story?

"I'm going to be late to work," Perry said, glancing at his watch.

"This will only take a minute," Benjy persisted. "It's well-known that Hamilton Burger was your most frequent rival in court. What do you think will happen in your future without him around to counter you?"

Perry gave up. "Oh, I imagine that I will continue to defend whomever wishes to hire me, and whomever I wish to have as a client," he said with a calm and casual air.

Benjy scribbled on his notepad. "And what are your feelings about Mr. Burger?"

Perry placed a hand in his pocket. "Mr. Burger is a capable and fair man, fully devoted to the causes of justice and truth," he said.

Benjy blinked in surprise. "Mr. Mason, you said 'is'," he pointed out. "You . . . _do_ realize that it's Mr. Burger's body they found, don't you?"

"I'm aware of what I said." Perry turned, heading towards the parking lot and his car. "As of now, there is no proof that the body discovered last night is that of Mr. Burger."

Benjy trailed after him. "Well, if it isn't, doesn't that mean Mr. Burger killed the man and then fled for his life?" he said.

"It doesn't mean that at all." Perry unlocked his car and placed his briefcase in the passenger seat. "No further questions, Mr. Kidd. I'm very busy." With that he climbed inside and quickly drove away, leaving Benjamin Kidd standing and staring after him.

xxxx

Della and Paul were waiting when Perry arrived at his office. Both regarded him in concern, but before they could speak Perry beat them to it.

"Hello, Della. Hello, Paul." He sighed, going past them to his desk. "It hasn't even been twelve hours and already everyone is trying to become involved in the case."

Paul sighed too. "So you got mobbed by reporters too? They're all over the place. It's a madhouse!"

"I had to come in the back way," Perry said without humor. "And after what I told a certain Mr. Kidd, there will probably be even more reporters outside in a couple of hours."

"What did you tell him?" Paul asked in surprise.

"Only the truth—that no one even knows yet whether the murdered man was the district attorney." Perry sat at his desk, opening his briefcase.

Della exchanged a concerned look with Paul before returning her attention to her employer and friend. "Perry . . ." She sat down in her usual chair. "There's really nothing to indicate that it _wasn't_ Mr. Burger who was killed."

"I know," Perry replied immediately. He glanced to his trusted secretary. "Truthfully, that's one of the things that makes me believe all the more that something isn't adding up. It's all so neat, so perfect. And yet, if it really is such a clear-cut case, why did the body have to be so mutilated that it will take longer to establish identification?"

"That's the way the other murders have been too," Paul said. "There wasn't positive proof that those jurors were the ones who had been killed until some hours had passed."

Perry nodded. "Then there's Mr. Burger's car."

Paul sighed. "You're still wondering why there's desert flora stuck all over it?"

"Aren't you?" Perry returned. "Paul, if Mr. Burger drove straight home from his office, he would have just gone through town. There wouldn't be any place that he would come across desert plant life, except . . ."

"Except at certain parts of the highway," Della realized. "Some of the hillsides still have grass and desert plants."

"And why would he encounter them there, either, unless something happened to plunge his car right into their midst?" Perry leaned back. "The left side mirror was shattered. I can't help wondering if someone was shooting at him and ran his car off the road."

"Then how did it get parked back in his driveway?" Paul objected.

"It could have been driven back by any number of people—Mr. Burger, whoever was shooting at him, an accomplice. . . ."

"Don't forget the argument his neighbor heard," Della said. "Mr. Burger had to be home at least some time after ten to confront whoever was coming in."

"And if the body isn't Burger's, doesn't that implicate _him_ in a murder?" Paul said.

"There has to be another explanation," Perry said. "Either the man killed was Hamilton Burger or he was not. But if he was not, Hamilton Burger was not his murderer. _If _he ever killed anyone, it would be in self-defense only. And he would never go to such lengths to make it look like he had been killed instead. There wouldn't be any purpose to it."

"But what other explanation are we left with, Perry?" Della sadly protested.

"I'm going to find out," Perry said. "Della, until we know more, I can't fully believe Hamilton is dead. I know it seems unlikely that he isn't, and the evidence all points towards it, but there are several vital pieces to this puzzle that are missing."

Paul sighed. "Maybe," he consented, lowering his voice. "Or maybe you're just fooling yourself because you never thought Burger would end up killed just like that."

Perry looked to him with a start. Paul looked away, unable to hold the gaze. "I'm sorry," he said.

"No, no need to apologize," Perry said. "What you're saying could be true; I'm aware of that, too. And I'll admit, I suppose some part of me does find it hard to believe. But it could happen to Hamilton Burger just as easily as it could happen to anyone else."

"You just don't think it did," Paul surmised.

"At this point, I don't know one way or the other," Perry said. "I can't say what I think."

"And none of the neighbors were any help at all?" Della asked.

"No," Perry said. "Some of them heard or saw the car pull in, and some of them saw a man get out, but it was too dark to tell who it was. They just automatically assumed it was Hamilton. There was no reason to think it was anyone else."

"And maybe it wasn't anyone else," Paul said. He sighed. "So, where do we go from here?"

"I don't know." Perry thought for a moment, then looked to Paul. "Paul, try to find out if the police know anything they're not telling the public."

Paul stared at him, even though he knew it was useless to protest. "Okay, but I can't guarantee I'll turn up anything," he said.

"Thank you, Paul." Perry turned to Della. "Della, why don't you try contacting the families of the jurors who were killed? Try to find out more about the nights they were murdered."

Della nodded. "And I'm looking for some kind of a pattern," she guessed.

"That's right," Perry said. "Anything that was the same or similar between their deaths and the one last night."

"What are you going to do, Perry?" Della asked.

"I think I'll have a talk with Marcus Waden," Perry said.

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg entered the police station in despondent discouragement, mumbling a greeting to the officers in the squad room as he headed for his private office. Even through the closed windows the reporters could still be heard, demanding answers to their frustrating and largely unanswerable questions.

He was in no mood to even begin to try. He was running on very little sleep today; not only had he been up late after the discovery of the body, but when he had gone off-duty and returned home sleep had laughed at him. For most of the rest of the night he had lain awake, thinking on the sight of Mr. Burger's mutilated corpse and who could have possibly been responsible. The few moments he had slumbered, it had been troubled and peppered with dreams he scarcely recalled now.

Sergeant Brice was waiting for him in the hallway. "I'm glad you got in safe," he said wryly.

Tragg let out a sigh of exasperation as he pushed open the door to his office and went inside. "I wouldn't be surprised if every reporter in town is standing outside our precinct, the district attorney's office, and the Brent building," he said, tossing his hat onto his desk.

Brice followed him in, pushing the door half-closed behind him. "This is a scandal we didn't need," he said. "Donald Rite's and Anne Harding's deaths were already big news. Reporters were wondering if we'd be able to stop another murder. And now, not only were we unable to stop it, but the district attorney is dead."

"I don't care about the scandal right now," Tragg grumbled, sinking into his chair. "I care about solving these murders. Have there been any leads at all?"

"No, sir," Brice told him. "And Waden still isn't talking. If he set this up, he isn't going to tell us."

"Of course he won't," Tragg said. "He'll enjoy watching us stew over it."

"Oh, and a deputy D.A. called," Brice remembered. "He wants to talk with you as soon as possible."

"I'll see about it," Tragg answered, occupied. He picked up a small stack of papers on his desk, leafing through them.

Brice shifted, uncomfortable. "I never thought something like this would happen," he said at last.

"You should have," Tragg growled. "_I _should have. If we had been more alert and focused, maybe it _wouldn't_ have happened."

Brice fell silent. "Lieutenant . . . it wasn't your fault."

"Well, right now it feels like it," Tragg retorted. He shook his head, slumping further back in the chair. "I was there when Waden snapped and started yelling at everyone in the courtroom. Mr. Burger wasn't concerned; he was certain it was an empty threat. I didn't see how Waden could carry it out, but I investigated anyway and decided he couldn't. And then Donald Rite turned up dead."

"We couldn't even be sure what kind of pattern the killer was taking, especially after Anne Harding was found next," Brice said.

"Everyone involved with that trial should have been placed under police protection," Tragg said. "I'll see to it that everyone left will be."

He stared blankly at the pages. Maybe, hopefully, they would be able to save others. But it was already too late for Mr. Burger.

Yesterday's newspaper was still on his desk. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Mr. Burger's name. He set the sheets aside and pulled the newspaper over to read.

"_District Attorney Hamilton Burger says that he is not concerned about his own safety, despite the rising death count. He is certain that the police will apprehend the killer before anyone else is murdered."_

Tragg slammed the paper back down, startling Sergeant Brice out of his mind. He leaned forward, massaging his forehead. "Oh Mr. Burger," he muttered sadly, "I'm so sorry."

xxxx

When Della rang the doorbell at the Harding house, a puzzled and saddened young woman in her twenties soon opened the door. She regarded Della in confusion. "Can I help you?"

Della smiled at her. "Hello. My name is Della Street. I'm sorry to bother you at a time like this, but I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about Anne Harding's death."

The girl frowned. "I've already talked to several reporters," she said. "I'd rather not talk to any more."

"Oh, I'm not a reporter," Della hurried to say. "I work for Perry Mason, an attorney here in Los Angeles. We're investigating the death of the district attorney."

The girl considered that. "Alright then," she consented. "I'm Trisha Harding, Anne's sister. Come on in." She held the door open wider.

Della stepped into the entryway. "Thank you," she said.

Trisha shut the door behind her. "So, what is it you want to know?" she asked.

"Mr. Mason wonders if there is any connection between these recent deaths, since they were all involved with the Marcus Waden trial," Della said.

Trisha shrugged. "Everyone seems to think they're being bumped off by some hitman of Waden's," she said.

"Yes, I know." Della glanced at the living room. Before she could voice her question, Trisha rushed on.

"Are you wondering where Anne was found? It was right in here." Trisha gestured to the living room, slowly advancing towards an end table. "Just on the floor."

"What time was that?" Della queried.

"After ten P.M. three days ago," Trisha said. "Well, it'll be four days tonight." She tilted her head. "Wasn't that Donald Rite killed three days before that?"

"Yes," Della said, a bit taken-aback.

"And then the D.A. was killed last night." Trisha frowned. "Always three days apart. Weird." She turned away, gripping her arms. "They're always mutilated too. Why? What kind of sicko would _do_ that? Isn't it bad enough to kill them at all, let alone to . . . to . . ."

Della walked over, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. Trisha leaned into it and then abruptly huffed, wiping at her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I vowed to myself that I would keep it together and not break down like this. But I've failed. I've seriously failed."

"Your sister was killed," Della said. "There's nothing wrong with showing you're upset."

Trisha sighed, walking over to the window. "Anne always told me that I'm too emotional," she said. "She wasn't like that. Oh no, not Anne. Even when she got the threatening phone call, it didn't faze her."

Della perked up. "Someone threatened her over the phone?" she said in concern. "Did she tell the police?"

"She wasn't going to, but I called them," Trisha said. "I was _worried._ The creep on the phone, he told her that Donald Rite was dead and she was next. She just laughed."

Could Mr. Burger have received a similar threat? Maybe, Della thought, she should seek out his secretary and see if she knew.

Trisha was continuing her story. "And then . . . then I came home and found her lying there. . . ."

"I'm so sorry. But . . . she laughed?" Della frowned in confusion. "Even if she wasn't worried, that seems like a strange reaction to a death threat."

"Anne was a strange person," Trisha shrugged. "She lived life for the moment and didn't worry about the future at all."

"Do you know if she thought the threat had something to do with the Marcus Waden case?" Della asked.

Trisha paused, frowning as she stared off into the distance. "You know, I'm not sure what she thought," she said. "She never really said. The police asked her what she thought and she said she figured it was probably some cheap prank. But now that I think of it, there was a look in her eyes when she said that. I never really saw her look like that before. I thought maybe I imagined it. She looked like she was lying and she knew it, but she felt like there was no other way."

Della's eyes widened in surprise. "Why would she lie about that?"

"I don't know!" Trisha exclaimed. "I don't know at all!"

With little more that could be learned from Trisha, Della departed soon after. She walked slowly to her car, lost in her thoughts. Now there were only more questions than answers. As usual, the case was expanding into something ten times more confusing than before.

xxxx

It was late in the day when the trio met back in Perry's office to reveal their findings. All were exhausted, bewildered, and grim.

"Who wants to go first?" Perry asked, looking from one to the other.

"Why don't you, Perry," Della said.

Paul nodded. "What did Marcus Waden have to say?"

Perry sighed in frustration. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. At least, nothing that was actually useful. He was very obstinate and obnoxious about the deaths. He said that Mr. Burger and the jurors had got what had been coming to them. When I tried to ask if he had been involved in any way, he merely shrugged and said that it would be a strange coincidence if he wasn't."

"It would be at that," Paul said. "Only that would just be too wild of a coincidence, wouldn't it?"

Perry paused. "I don't know," he said. "There has to be a connection between the victims, but there is the chance that Waden really didn't have anything to do with their deaths."

"Strangely, I started to wonder the same thing after talking with Trisha Harding," Della said. As she told of her experience, both Perry and Paul listened with surprised attention.

"So Anne Harding claimed she thought the threat was a prank, but she acted oddly about it," Perry mused.

"Yes," Della said. "Then I wondered if Burger could have received a similar threat. I tried to talk to his secretary, but I couldn't find her."

"She was being questioned by the police," Paul put in. "I found her just as they were letting her go. She told me that Burger did get a weird call. He was told about the two jurors being dead and that he was next. When he tried to have the police contact the phone company to find out where the call came from, they came up empty." He glanced to Perry. "And no, she has no idea why Burger's car is covered in desert plant life."

Della threw up her hands in dismay. "So we're right where we started," she sighed.

Perry leaned back. "Were you able to look up Donald Rite's family, Della?" he wondered.

Della sighed. "I tried, but his brother was in a meeting and his wife wasn't feeling well. I left a message for his brother to call the office."

"And what can we do in the meantime?" Paul shook his head. "We're at a standstill."

Perry thought a moment. "We could take a drive along the path Hamilton might have taken to get home," he said. "Maybe we'd find a clue at the spot where he was run off the road."

"_If_ he was run off the road," Paul said.

The phone let out a sharp ring. Perry grabbed it up. "Hello?" He listened a moment, then held it out to Paul. "It's for you."

Paul took it. "It must be one of my men," he said. "Hello?" His face turned grim at what the speaker was saying. "They're sure?" He let out a heavy sigh. "Okay, I'll let him know. Thanks."

"What was that about?" Perry asked as Paul hung up.

"The medical examiner's preliminary report is in," Paul said. "The body's identity has been confirmed."

"Hamilton," Perry guessed.

Paul nodded. "Yeah." He looked to Perry with genuine regret. "I'm sorry."

Perry looked at the desk, somber. "So am I, Paul," he said. "So am I."


	3. Confusion

**Notes: I'm not sure how well this will go over with this particular fandom, but unless a show is unquestionably a period piece (such as **_**Daniel Boone**_**), I tend to move the time period to the present day. I wasn't sure it would come up in this story, so I didn't mention it before, but in this chapter there are two very small references to such. I feel they are at natural points and don't distract from what's happening.**

**Chapter Three**

It was hard to say what actually woke him up. It could have been the sun parting the branches and beating down on his location. It could have been the autumn chill and the sudden breeze.

Or it could have been the blood trickling over his right eye.

Hamilton Burger slowly pushed himself upright, gingerly seeking the source of the wound with his fingers. A superficial cut was on the right side of his forehead, still dripping down his face. Annoyed, he fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. Locating one, he dabbed at the blood until he had it wiped away.

Where was he? He squinted, trying to focus through the insistent sun's rays. It was definitely a wooded area; there were pine trees all around him and no visible road at all. High above him, one tree's branches suddenly moved as a bird fluttered from that tree to another.

How had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was being down in the city, trying to escape an assassin. And . . . had he been shot? The hitman had caught him and held a gun behind him. His head was throbbing.

A hand went immediately to the back of his head. There was no blood, just a bump. But why would the assassin merely knock him unconscious? And what about the gunshot? He remembered there being one, but not the circumstances surrounding it being fired.

He placed a hand on a nearby tree as he drew himself to his feet. There were no tire tracks on the ground, no indication that the hitman or anyone else had dumped him here—wherever _here_ was. But if no one had brought him, how could he have possibly got here?

There were footprints in the grass and in the dirt. And those in the dirt seemed to match his own, right down to the design in the shoe soles. He stared at the path that had been cut in utter disbelief. He could not have walked up here. If he had, wouldn't he recall something of it? Or had he been in such a complete daze from being hit on the head that it was a total mystery to him now? He could have forgotten the walk under those circumstances.

He started down the trail, keeping a slow pace. He still felt somewhat dizzy; he might have a concussion. And for the life of him, he could not remember what had happened after the hitman had cornered him. No matter how he tried to call the scene to mind, it refused to come.

He looked at his watch. It was in the afternoon. How had he lost so much time? Well, if he actually had walked all the way up there, that would account for a lot of it, he supposed. But it was impossible. He could not have eluded an assassin for that long, especially in his condition.

In any case, he was missing and people might even be looking for him now. Again he groped through his pocket, this time seeking his cellphone. Sometimes he could get a signal in the woods; it all depended on the exact location. But this was not one of those locations. _No Signal_ flashed across the screen. In frustration he shoved the device back in his pocket.

One good thing was that he was at the top of a hill. Maybe he could stand there and look out over the area to determine where he was relative to Los Angeles.

He came around the last tree in his way and stood in disbelief. He was above and near Los Angeles; the city was spread out below. And this was not just a hill; it was a mountain. Again he was in disbelief. How had he got up here? The way down looked easy enough, if his head was not pounding. As it was, the thought of trying to climb to level ground was making him dizzy. Inconveniently, it would be dark before long, too.

He heaved a frustrated sigh. He had better start.

The anonymous assassin's voice echoed through his mind as he set off down the closest thing he could find to a trail—the path he had taken according to the footprints.

"_Sorry, Mr. Burger. I'm afraid your number is up. It's been three days, after all."_

And then the gunshot. Obviously he was missing something that happened in between.

What was the significance of three days? Why was it always that number? As far as he could recall, nothing to do with Waden's trial involved three of anything. Maybe it didn't mean a thing. Maybe the killer was obsessive-compulsive and just wanted to kill someone every three days.

. . . There _had_ been a case revolving around the number three, now that he thought of it. It had been the defendant's favorite number. But that had been several years ago—three, ironically enough.

He stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening with a sudden remembrance. Anne Harding had been a witness for the prosecution in that case. He could not recall for sure, but what if Donald Rite had also been involved?

Even if that were all so, and even if that case, and not Waden's, was motivating the attacks, who was behind it? The kid was locked away and all visitors were closely monitored. His family had been supportive of the verdict, too.

Maybe this was just the rambling thoughts of an injured man, with no merit or truth to be found in them. He could think more about the possibilities when he no longer had this headache to contend with.

Again he started to walk, but he soon stiffened, casting a suspicious glance over his shoulder. How did he know he was really alone out here? The idea that he had walked up the peak was so preposterous that he could still scarcely believe it. What if the assassin had brought him up here and was having a little fun with him before killing him? At any time, without warning he could be shot in the back. But there was no sound and no sensation that he was being watched.

At last he resumed his pace. He should hurry; with two people already dead and the police aware that he had been threatened, they might start to wonder if he had been killed too. And that was the last thing that he or anyone else needed right now.

xxxx

Perry had definitely been disheartened by Paul's news regarding the medical examiner's findings. Now that the truth was upon them, he was coming to realize just how certain he had been that there was another explanation for the body and that it was someone else's. Instead he was being forced to accept that the original conclusion had been correct all along. Hamilton Burger was dead.

But the murderer was still out there, somewhere. There was still a case to solve. With this development, it was deeply personal.

At last Perry stood from where he had been silent at his desk. "Let's try driving along the route Hamilton might have taken to get home," he said, making no further mention of Paul's revelation.

Paul and Della exchanged surprised and confused looks before getting up to chase after Perry. Della was the first to try to speak. "Perry . . ."

Perry glanced back from where he was standing at the door. "Someone killed him for a reason, Della," he said. "It's up to us to find out who did it and why, and see that they're brought to justice."

"You don't even have a client in this case," Paul protested as they stepped outside. "There's no need for us to look into this when the police are investigating."

"The police conduct their investigations. I conduct mine." Perry looked to him when they reached the elevator door. "Don't you want to know who could have been so angry at Hamilton that they would do this?"

Paul looked down. "Well, of course, but . . ."

"Then it shouldn't even be a question," Perry declared. The elevator opened and he stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor.

Della turned to Paul, her words silent in her eyes before she followed Perry into the elevator. Paul sighed, having caught the meaning very clearly. _Let Perry have his way; this is important to him._ Paul got in as well and Perry pushed the button to close the doors.

xxxx

They took Perry's car, driving from Burger's office to his house and then back the other way. But there were no stretches of highway built on hills. All of the travel was flat and inner city. When they arrived back at the office, they were collectively confused, frustrated, and at a loss.

"He must have taken another way home," Perry said.

"But why would he?" Della wondered. "There wouldn't be any reason for it."

"Let's drive down that road again," Perry said. "Maybe we'll find something we missed. Look for a side-road."

It was Paul who found it. "There!" he exclaimed at a section of the highway nearly halfway to the house. "That road goes off to the right."

Quickly Perry turned the car into the right lane, heading down the side-road. He frowned at the scenery.

"This goes to Mr. Burger's neighborhood, but it's the long way around," he said.

"It doesn't make sense," Paul said. "He wouldn't have come . . ."

"Look!" Della exclaimed, pointing out the window. "Skid marks!"

Perry pulled over and parked, getting out in almost the same instant. His eyes narrowed as he studied the distinctive tire tracks on the road. "A car definitely went off here," he said, walking to the edge and peering over the side. The hill, which was filled with sagebrush and other desert plants, sloped down to the bottom. Dried grass was pressed over in two lines all the way down, as though a car had driven there. Perry was soon heading for the bottom too. Della and Paul swiftly followed.

"This _is_ a wild coincidence," Paul noted. "And I know—maybe it isn't a coincidence. Maybe Burger really was here." He gestured at the area in exasperation. "But there's no way to prove it!"

Perry, however, was studying the ground. "Oh yes there is, Paul," he declared. At several spots the grass was gone and dirt was in its place. The tire treads of what must have been the front right tire were imprinted in one of the bare spots.

Paul leaned over, his eyes widening. "The police could get a good moulage out of that," he realized.

"And that's just what I'm going to see that they do," Perry said, taking out his phone. "Then all they have to do is match the plaster impression with the right front tire of Hamilton's car."

"If they match, he—or someone driving his car—was here," Della finished.

She walked slightly away from the others as Perry placed the call to the police. It was horrible to think of what might have happened here last night—that Mr. Burger actually could have been run off the road. And if the assassin had been after him at that point, what then? Wouldn't the logical thing be for the assassin to climb down and see if his target was dead? Why wouldn't he have killed Mr. Burger here instead of back at the house? It couldn't have been here, not with the argument his neighbor had heard right before the struggle.

She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of rustling grass. Paul was walking over with her. "What do you think?" he asked.

She sighed. "I don't know what to think," she said. "If Burger was here, it only opens up even more mysteries."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Paul said. "Perry might be right, you know; at least about something not adding up." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Somebody could've been going through a lot of trouble to see that Burger wound up dead."

"And I don't understand why," Della lamented. "Is it to do with this Waden case or something else?"

"And was going off the road an accident?" Paul added. "It doesn't make sense that he'd take this route in the first place. He'd know it would be the longer way around."

Della sighed. "I guess if someone really was after him, they could have forced him onto the side-road somehow," she said.

Paul nodded. "That's true," he said noncommittally.

Della gripped her arms. "It's terrible," she said. "I mean . . . it's terrible for it to happen to anyone, but when it's someone we know so well. . . ." She turned to look at him. "It really drives home how lucky we've been all these years. And it could run out at any time."

"I know." Paul glanced back at Perry, who was still on the phone. Apparently he was having a difficult time convincing the police that this could be connected with Burger's car or that it was worth investigating to see if it was.

Della looked back too. "Paul, I'm worried about Perry," she said. "He was so sure that it couldn't have been Mr. Burger who was killed, until the medical examiner's report came in. Now that he knows it really was Burger, I'm afraid it might take him a long time to be able to get over it."

Paul sighed. "He'll be alright," he said. "And I'm sure it will help for him to catch whoever did it."

"Yes," Della said slowly, "but it won't bring Mr. Burger back from the dead."

Paul frowned, grim. "It's going to be strange, not having him around clashing with Perry in court. I'm not sure I've really processed it yet."

Della nodded. "I think Perry actually looked forward to those encounters. He thought of them as meetings of the minds." She smiled a bit, rueful and sad.

"I don't know what Burger thought," Paul remarked. "He hated being shown up by Perry, but Perry was right that Burger was more interested in seeing justice done than in winning his cases." He shook his head. "I was surprised."

"You never have liked him all that much, have you?" Della noted.

Paul sighed. "I guess it's not that much of a secret. No, I haven't. Well . . . I didn't, anyway. Not when he was so uptight and always seemed to be accusing Perry of something illegal. Do you know how many times I came close to losing my license?" He looked away and mumbled as he went on, "Of course, that was really my own fault for going along with some of Perry's crazy schemes."

Della regarded him in amusement. "He started to change after a while," she said. "The times when he accused Perry were less and less. Although that might be because Perry started to change some of his own methods." She gazed off into the distance. "But it's strange, Paul; even during some of their worst encounters, it was easy to tell that they were growing close."

"For the longest time I couldn't even figure out why Perry wanted anything to do with him outside of court," Paul said. "Seeing him there was plenty enough for me. . . . For that matter, I wondered why _Burger_ wanted anything to do with _Perry_ outside of court."

"You know," Della said, "despite all the trouble we caused him, he really didn't want to prosecute you that time when you were framed for murder."

Paul kept his gaze away from her. "I was also surprised by _that,_" he said.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'll honestly miss him," Della said.

Paul looked down in resignation. "Okay," he admitted. "I will too. It won't be the same without him."

Della nodded in full agreement.

xxxx

By the time twilight was coming on, Mr. Burger was highly frustrated. He was still nowhere near the bottom of the mountain. He had been forced to stop several times to rest, whenever the dizziness came over him. At this rate, he would be climbing over the mountain in the middle of the night. Which, for all he knew, he did the previous night.

The sight of a lighted cabin perked him up. Maybe there was a phone there he could use to call into town. He made his way over to the door and knocked.

In a moment an older woman opened the door. She blinked at him in the growing darkness, surprise obvious in her widened eyes.

"Excuse me," Burger began. "I'm sorry to bother you, but may I use your telephone?"

She gaped at him in disbelief. "I don't have a phone," she said. "I told you that last night."

Now it was his turn to stare. "Last night?" he exclaimed, incredulous. He had not been here then. Or at least, he certainly did not remember it.

She gave a firm nod. "You stopped here in a terrible daze," she said, "swaying and acting dizzy or hurt or something. You asked to use the telephone then and I said I didn't have one. Then I told you you'd better stay the night and rest on the couch." She frowned. "Several hours later I went to check on you and you were gone. I couldn't imagine what you were up to, but I thought it just as well that I not get involved."

Burger frowned, not liking the sound of this at all. "You thought I was hurt, but you didn't take any action when I disappeared?"

She shrugged. "I went outside and called to you, but when there wasn't any answer I went back inside and locked my door. I thought maybe you'd been putting on some kind of act and that you meant me some harm."

"If I'd meant to hurt you, I had the perfect chance last night," Burger retorted.

"I suppose so," she said. "But the whole thing smacked of oddness right from the start—you turning up in that kind of condition, that fellow showing up after you. . . ."

Burger stiffened. "What fellow?" he demanded.

"Oh, I don't know. A tall man with sunglasses. In the middle of the night! He asked if anyone had been by. I wasn't sure I should tell him about you, so I said No. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, but . . ."

"Did he just accept you at your word?" Burger said in astonishment. "He didn't want to search your cabin?"

"No, he did not," she frowned. "He just turned and left. Frankly, it's all been so strange that I haven't known what to think about anything, especially either one of you." She leaned across the doorway, gripping the frame. "And I'm not sure I should let you back inside."

"Nevermind," Burger said, not sure whether he felt disgust or frustration or some level of understanding. "I won't bother you again." He started to turn away.

". . . Oh, wait." Now she sounded grudging. "Have you eaten anything today?"

He paused. "Some berries," he said.

She looked him up and down. "Well, I hope you know your way around good berries and bad ones." She sighed. "I was fixing dinner. If you wait on the porch, I'll bring you something."

It was certainly better than nothing—or a few berries. He felt quite weak. "Thank you," he said, sinking into a chair on the porch as she went back inside.

This was bizarre. Was the woman telling the truth? If the assassin had tracked him that far, it just did not make sense that he would simply leave the cabin owner alone and not want to search for him. And she claimed to not know if he had actually been hurt. But it wouldn't have taken much to look him over and determine that it was true. If the woman was lying, what was the real story?

He stiffened. Was there any chance that she could be involved in this twisted plot? And if she was, did she intend him harm now?

He stood, moving quietly to the window. The woman was standing at the stove, spooning something into a bowl. Setting it down, she took a small pack of something and sprinkled its contents into the food.

Hamilton had no intention of waiting to determine if that were poison or not. It was her story that "smacked of oddness", not his own.

As quickly as possible, he fled.


	4. Note

**Chapter Four**

The figure, hunched over and staggering, approached the hospital as night descended. The doors' motion detectors, sensing the presence, slid open to allow admission.

The receptionist looked up with a start. The people in the waiting room stared, their eyes wide.

Before anyone could say a thing, the newcomer looked up, pained. "Help me," she implored. "Please!"

Her weakened legs gave out, sending her crashing to the floor.

xxxx

It was late that night, but Perry was still in his office, pondering on the events of the last few hours. Paul had gone back to his own office, feeling helpless and stunned by all that had happened. Della had left Perry alone when she thought he wanted it, but it had been a while now and she was concerned enough to get up from her desk and walk to the connecting door between their offices.

Slowly she opened the door. "Perry?" she asked, her eyes and voice filled with concern. "Are you alright?"

He turned in surprise to face her from when he was standing at the window. "Yes, Della, I'm alright."

She was not fooled. "If you want to talk, you know I'm always good for a listening ear."

A faint trace of a smile passed across his face. But then it was gone and he looked back to the window.

"It's strange, how someone can be around for years and it seems as though they always will be. You know somewhere in the back of your mind that you'll have to part ways eventually. Still, the last thing on your mind is that it will happen because of murder."

Della walked over to him. Perry did not often speak of what was on his mind at all. For him to do so now was a further indication of what she had already known—that the death of Hamilton Burger was affecting him deeply.

Finally Perry turned to look at her. "Hamilton was a good man. I respected and admired him, even though we didn't always see eye to eye.

"He made a great number of enemies in the criminals he helped to convict. In retrospect, perhaps it's strange this didn't happen before. One of them finally grew so angry at him that they did something about it."

"It's horrible," Della agreed. She kept from saying too much. This was Perry's time to mourn their lost friend.

Perry shook his head. "The last thing he would ever do would be to deliberately shoot someone in cold-blood murder," he said, his voice tinged with anger. "That's why that reporter's allegations from earlier today are so appalling."

Della nodded. "Still, for a while you hoped that it was someone else's body in his house," she surmised.

"Of course," Perry said. "If it wasn't for the medical examiner's report, I would still think it possible." He paused. "But I would never believe him guilty of murder. I would rather acknowledge that he's dead than to consider something so impossible as that."

Della was silent for a long moment, gathering her thoughts. "He's certainly accused you of a lot of crimes through the years," she said at last.

"And for some of them I was guilty, at least to some extent," Perry said. "But Hamilton knew I would never condone a murder. He was sincere when he said he didn't want to think I would ever be an accessory to such a crime."

He paused, gazing off at the lights of the city. "I remember when his friend was accused of murder. Hamilton came to me, hoping I would defend the man but feeling too awkward to outright say it." The fleeting smile this time was good-naturedly amused and fond. "He felt he had no right to ask."

"Paul was floored when he heard about that case later," Della remarked. "I think I was surprised too. Mr. Burger had a lot of layers to his personality that I'd never dreamed of."

"We all do, Della. And we don't allow some of those layers to be visible very often."

"That's true." Della looked up at him. "I'll miss those awkward moments of his. They were honestly endearing." She stepped closer to him. "You know, I think that, in spite of his ranting and his frustrations, he respected you too."

"I know he did." Perry smiled. "It's been said that no matter how fiercely attorneys oppose each other in court, it's not surprising to later find them dining together."

Della laughed then sobered, letting her gaze travel to the window. "I wonder if he'd be surprised that we're here talking about him."

"Maybe," Perry said, grateful for Della's company. "Or maybe not."

xxxx

For some time after Della returned to her office, Perry sat at his desk with his thoughts.

The police knew now that Hamilton Burger's car had indeed been the one that had gone off the road on the highway. The moulage of the tire treads had matched the right front tire of Burger's white car, just as Perry had been certain it would. And even more suspicious, casings from two bullets had been located on the highway shortly before the location of the skid marks.

But that only opened up more mysteries than before. What had Mr. Burger been doing on that side-road? Had he been forced onto it, as Perry thought? The bullet casings proved that someone had fired at something, possibly the car. One of them could have hit the side mirror.

And what about the other bullet? There had been no evidence on the car of the second bullet striking it.

Perry had a theory that the elusive second bullet had blown out one of the tires, causing the car to go off the road. Lieutenant Tragg was willing to go along with that, except for the problem of how the car had gotten back to Mr. Burger's driveway. If an assassin had pursued Hamilton that far, Hamilton would not have had time to change the tire himself. And the tire with the possible bullet hole was nowhere to be found. Tragg had determined that Mr. Burger had tried to avoid the barrage and had driven off the road due to that, without the tire being punctured. He had escaped in the car and gone back home, where he had encountered the hitman again before having the chance to call the police.

Perry sighed to himself. Maybe Tragg was right. After all, Burger was dead. There was no way around that, as much as he would like to believe otherwise.

But then, why was it that something kept nagging at him?

He stood, crossing to the window. Maybe the "nagging" was nothing more than his own imagination. Maybe, in spite of what he knew, he was still looking for a way that Burger could be alive. Of course, it was impossible. They had the medical examiner's preliminary report. With such a serious matter, the corpse's identity had been checked on ahead of everything else. Unless there had been a mistake, or unless someone was deliberately lying, the matter was closed.

A familiar knock on the door brought him back to the present. "Come in, Paul," he called.

The door opened and Paul entered. At his utterly bewildered expression Perry's eyes narrowed. "What's happened?"

Paul sighed. "You're not going to believe this," he said. "I still don't believe it."

"Believe what?" Perry frowned.

"A woman turned up at the local hospital, malnourished and weak," Paul said. "She asked for help and then collapsed on the floor. Here's the part you won't believe—she says she's Anne Harding and that for the last few days someone's been holding her hostage and torturing her."

Perry's countenance changed. He was going for the door in the next instant. "Have the police talked to her yet?" he demanded.

Paul chased after him. "Not yet; the doctor doesn't think they should see her until at least tomorrow."

"What about her sister?" Perry opened the door and hastened into the outer office. Della stood up, stunned, but had no chance to get a word in.

"They're trying to locate her now," Paul said. "But Perry, Anne Harding is dead! The medical examiner confirmed her identity."

"He _said_ he did," Perry said. "Paul, there's one of two possibilities. Either the woman at the hospital is an impostor and Anne Harding truly is dead . . . or she's telling the truth and Anne Harding is alive. And that would mean that someone else is lying, maybe the medical examiner."

Della hurried over to them. "What's all this about Anne Harding being alive and the medical examiner not telling the truth?" she exclaimed.

"We'll explain on the way, Della," Perry said. "We're going to pay a visit to the hospital."

"Let me guess—you want to talk to the doctor," Paul said.

Perry nodded. "And Anne Harding, if she'll see us."

Paul had expected that, but the protest still leaped out. "Perry, the doctor said . . ."

"Paul, don't you feel that something very strange is going on around here?" Perry interrupted. "And that if Ms. Harding is alive, two other persons could be in grave danger right now?"

"You mean that maybe the two other connected murders aren't what they seem either and the people we thought were killed weren't the victims at all," Paul deduced.

"Exactly. We can't waste any time." Perry headed into the reception room. Though he did not say more, the words he had not spoken were just as loud as if he had.

Della lingered, looking to Paul. "What do you think?" she queried. "Is it possible that . . ."

"I don't even want to think until we've talked to that woman," Paul said with a grimace. "Maybe it's really her. Or maybe it's a fake trying to make trouble. Either way, this case just got a thousand times more complicated."

Della nodded. "I'd hate to see this be a false alarm," she said. "Perry has hope again. He's not just trying to find out who killed Mr. Burger; now he's thinking he can believe that Mr. Burger really could be alive."

"Come on, you two," Perry called from the reception room. "Let's go!"

Della exchanged another concerned look before hurrying after her employer and friend. Paul shook his head as he followed.

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg let out a weary sigh, allowing the sheet of paper he had been examining to fall from his fingers to his desk.

On any other murder case he would be going over the facts with the district attorney as they tried to piece together what was going on. Due to the tragedy of this case, that was impossible. He would never talk with Mr. Burger again. He had instead conversed with a young deputy D.A.—Sampson, a blustering upstart. Sampson was about as different in personality from Mr. Burger as one could get. Nevertheless, he had a great deal of respect and admiration for the deceased prosecutor and was reeling over his murder. He had, in outrage, vowed to bring the killer to justice.

That was, at least, one thing upon which Tragg could agree with him. They both wanted to see Mr. Burger's murderer face the courts. Tragg had tried to control his feelings, but it was difficult. He was taking what had happened as a personal blow. Los Angeles had lost its district attorney (and Heaven help it if Sampson would end up taking the reins), but Tragg had lost much more.

He had felt sick when he had answered the call about a violent struggle at Hamilton Burger's house and had discovered the blood and then the body. He had wanted to believe, as Perry had, that it was someone else. But it had been unlikely. And then the medical examiner had proven the truth.

Or at least, they thought he had. With this latest development, the entire case had been thrown into a tumult again. Tragg would be lying if he said he had not considered the possibility that the others were alive if Anne Harding was. Still, he had been on the force too long. He did not want to have his hopes up only to have them dashed again. He did not want to believe that Mr. Burger could be alive until there was more to go on. If this fell through, it would be as though Tragg was losing his friend a second time. And that was too much to ask.

At that moment, one of the precinct's sergeants knocked on the half-open door. Tragg glanced up.

"Come in," he gestured.

Sergeant Nichols entered. "I called the hospital again, Lieutenant," he said. "Miss Harding—or whoever that is there—is resting now. The doctor still doesn't want her disturbed. He said he thinks she hasn't eaten for several days, maybe not since that person was killed in her house."

Tragg nodded. "We'll try first thing in the morning." He looked down at the paper. "Funny, isn't it. Several days ago, this started with one grisly homicide. Then there were two more, but it all looked perfectly cut-and-dried, at least as far as motive was concerned. Now, suddenly, everything's turned upside-down."

Nichols frowned. "It's strange, alright," he said. "Oh, the doctor did say Miss Harding has been mumbling in her sleep. It sounds like she was alone wherever she was. She hasn't mentioned anyone else being with her."

"And what are we supposed to take from that?" Tragg returned, lacing his fingers on the desk. "They could have kept each person in a separate place."

"What's the purpose of any of it?" Nichols exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

Tragg watched him with some semblance of amusement in spite of himself. "Now, I'm frustrated too, Sergeant, but let's try to keep calm." He stood and started to pace. "Has she said where she was being held?"

"She didn't know," Nichols said. "She said it was some warehouse down at the waterfront. And that could be any of several hundred locations."

"Yes, it could," Tragg nodded. "But she might still be able to help us pin down a more specific perimeter, if we could only talk with her."

Nichols hesitated. "Lieutenant, do you think there's any chance that the other supposed victims are alive?" he queried at last.

"I don't know," Tragg said. "I've been going over that in my head since we received that telephone call. Even if they are alive, there were still three murders. The medical examiner could have possibly mixed up one person's identity among all his files, but not three persons. The reports we received concerning their deaths were very deliberate."

"And the medical examiner is still out, with no way of getting in touch with him," Nichols said. "Could he have heard about the woman showing up at the hospital and fled before anyone realized he'd lied about the corpses' identities?"

"We can't afford to take any chances," Tragg said. "It's looking very bad for him and his office. I've assigned officers to stay at the hospital constantly in case someone comes back to reclaim Miss Harding."

He paused. "That question you asked, Sergeant, on what would be the purpose behind all this. I don't know the answer to that, either—but I can say this much. We are dealing with a very disturbed person." He indicated the medical examiner's reports on the conditions of the three corpses.

Nichols followed his gaze. He whole-heartedly agreed.

xxxx

Mr. Burger was in the trees close to the cabin. The woman did not seem to be in much of a hurry to find him; although he had heard the door open and her stepping out onto the porch, she had only grumbled a noncommittal "Where are you?" before heading back inside.

Was she alone in the cabin? She seemed to be, but could she be harboring someone in the back, maybe even the mysterious hitman? If she wasn't what she seemed to be, she was probably in on whatever outlandish plot was unfolding.

And now, before he had the chance to get farther away, there were footsteps going towards the log house. He froze and waited, hidden in the dense shadows of the pine trees. As long as his location was not known, he should be safe for at least a short while.

Someone was banging on the door. "Where is he?" a rough voice demanded. "Open up and tell me if you don't want your peaceful little home to get torched!"

It creaked open. "He was here, but he slipped away again," the woman retorted. "I don't know what you need him for anyway. Why not just leave him alone? He's no good to you."

"As long as I'm getting paid, he's worth a lot to me."

"He's the district attorney. Have some sense!"

"I'll go after anyone I'm paid to kill, whether it's the D.A. or a defense attorney like Perry Mason."

Burger stared, digging his fingers into the trunk of the pine tree that was his refuge. Was this character just blowing off steam he did not mean or was Perry in danger?

But Perry had not had anything to do with either the case involving the number three or Marcus Waden's trial. If he was mixed up in all of this, maybe there was still another explanation Hamilton had not arrived at.

Or maybe there was not even an explanation at all. Maybe this was just random, pointless killing. It had stopped making sense hours ago.

Apparently the woman was nearly as confused as he was. "What's Mason ever done to your client?" she demanded.

"I don't know and I don't need to know," the male voice answered. "But he'll be the next to go. If I can't find where the D.A. went, I'll go back to town and kill Mason tonight. Everyone thinks the D.A. is dead anyway. They won't be looking for him, so I'll have plenty of time to get back and comb this mountain afterwards." He swore. "You shouldn't have let him get away."

"Well, I didn't want to let him back into the cabin." The woman was defensive now. "He was too dazed last night to remember what he saw. Maybe coming back inside tonight would have brought it all back to him."

"So what? He would have been dead before he could have talked."

"Maybe not. He's sure been eluding you so far. Imagine, him getting up this mountain last night in his state!"

Burger had heard enough. He fell farther into the trees, praying that he would not be seen or heard. He had to get back to town, fast. Somehow he had to warn Perry of the assassin's intentions.

What could he have seen in the cabin? The woman was right that he had no memory of anything. If he were not likely to be caught and killed, he would investigate it now. As it was, he did not dare. Maybe he could get the police to come up here later tonight, hopefully before the evidence was too far removed from the scene.

And why was it that everyone thought _he_ was dead? His car had not caught fire; the police would have seen that he was not in it. He had only been gone for a day. That was surely not enough to cause anyone other than the utmost paranoid to think he was dead. There must be some other reason for it.

Twigs and leaves crackled behind him. He froze, listening. It could just be an animal of some kind. On the other hand, it could be the hitman looking for him. Had he been spotted? Maybe the assassin was only idly searching.

He had no intention of waiting long enough to find out which. He escaped deeper into the trees, in the direction he hoped was downhill towards town. The footsteps continued close by, wandering off to the right. If it was the hitman, he did not know where his prey was. And Burger had every intention of keeping it that way.

xxxx

The doctor at the hospital could not offer much more information than what Paul had already learned. He was cooperative, and tried to answer Perry's questions, but still insisted that the mysterious woman should not be disturbed tonight.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mason," he said as he slipped a folder into the drawer of his filing cabinet, "but when I won't allow the police to talk with her I don't intend to let anyone else see her, either."

Perry was not surprised, but he was concerned and impatient. "That's understandable, Doctor," he said. "However, there are two other people reported to have been murdered along with Ms. Harding. If this woman truly is Ms. Harding, alive, then the other two might be alive somewhere as well—also being tortured."

"Has she said anything at all about anyone else?" Della spoke.

"She's only talked about the men holding her hostage," the doctor said. "But I'll let you know if she mentions any others."

"Did she say where she was being held?" Perry asked.

"A warehouse on the waterfront. Which isn't much help at all, I know. The police are stymied. Oh!" The doctor hurried back to his desk, suddenly remembering something. "She was carrying something in her pocket. The police took it, but I wrote down what it was." He tore off a small piece of paper and handed it to Perry, who looked it over.

_aid on the 25__th __last._

_er to be killed._

_te to know._

Perry glanced up again. "I'm afraid I don't understand," he said. "It doesn't make sense. What is it?"

"A torn scrap of paper," the physician said. "It looked like it was from a note or a letter. He sighed, shaking his head. "I know it doesn't make sense. But the police took it, hoping they could force some sense into it."

"It will be interesting to see if they manage that trick," Perry said. "I believe I'll be working on it too. Goodbye, Doctor. Thank you for your help."

As he, Della, and Paul left the office and started back up the corridor, he studied the transcript with narrowed eyes. The others peered over his shoulders.

"It really doesn't make any sense," Paul said. "What's it even talking about? It could be referring to almost anything—the deaths from the past few days or something else altogether."

"I know," Perry frowned. "There are only three things clear at all—someone is to be killed, it has something to do with the 25th, and 'te' is supposed to know."

"The 25th could be a date," Della mused. "It could be the 25th that passed just a few days ago."

Perry suddenly looked up. "Paul," he said, "wasn't that the date when Marcus Waden's sentence was passed?"

Paul paused, surprised. "Yeah," he realized. "I think it was."

Perry gave a knowing nod. "That could be important," he said. "There is the possibility it could connect the deaths with Waden after all. I might need to pay him another visit."

"On the other hand, it could have to do with something completely different altogether," Paul said.

"That's another possibility," Perry agreed.

"But who's 'te'?" Della wondered.

"If we knew that, Della, we might have a large part of this case answered," Perry said.

xxxx

The office phone was ringing when the trio returned. Surprised, Della glanced at the wall clock before lifting the receiver. "Hello?" She looked to the equally surprised Perry and Paul. They rarely received calls this late unless it was vitally important. Maybe it was Donald Rite's family, returning her call.

"Is Mr. Mason there?" The voice was muffled and the connection was filled with static. The only thing really discernable was that the speaker was a man.

"Why, yes," Della said. "He just walked in."

"Tell him he's in danger. Someone's going to kill him tonight."

Della stiffened. "Who is this?" she demanded.

Two gunshots were the answer as the phone went dead.


	5. Search

**Chapter Five**

Della continued to grip the telephone, her knuckles white. The caller's message and the subsequent shots were echoing through her ears and her mind.

"Della?"

She whirled, her heart racing. Now Perry and Paul were visibly concerned. Perry had stepped next to her, frowning at the receiver. "Who was that?"

She shook her head, fighting to compose herself. "I don't know," she said. "He . . . he said someone wants to kill you tonight."

"And then someone shot at him," Perry concluded. "I could hear it through the phone."

Della nodded, still shaken by the person's message. In spite of all the dangerous cases they had investigated through the years, this sort of thing had rarely, if ever, happened to them. Now, within the space of a few days, Mr. Burger had been threatened and probably killed and someone was coming after Perry to do the same to him.

Perry placed his hands on her shoulders, gently leading her to a chair. "You'd better sit down, Della," he said. "Paul, see if you can find out where that call came from. For some reason, it didn't record on the I.D. machine."

Paul nodded. "What are you going to do?" he asked in concern. "I mean about the warning."

"I'm going to be very careful," Perry said. "And I'm going to call the police. The person who warned me is in danger too, if he's still alive."

Paul nodded and headed for the door. "Okay. You'd better stick to that," he said, pointing his forefinger at Perry. "I don't mind telling you that this thing's got me worried—really worried."

"I'll be fine, Paul," Perry smiled. "Go on now."

Paul sighed and went out, closing the door behind him.

Della looked after him. She could not help wishing that he had stayed. What would they do if someone broke in to kill Perry? Would the two of them be able to fight off a would-be murderer? Oh, it was not likely to happen here, she supposed. Maybe an assassin would be waiting in the parking garage or at Perry's apartment. But would Perry stay up here all night where he might be safer? Della already knew the answer—of course not.

"Della?"

She started. "Yes?"

Perry was regarding her in concern. "You haven't said a word in the last few minutes," he observed. "That phone call really disturbed you, didn't it?"

Something in Della's self-control broke. "Yes, it did!" she exclaimed, rising from the chair. "Perry, this has never happened before. Someone just threatened to kill you! Aren't you even worried?"

Perry hesitated, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm concerned," he said, "but more than that, I'm confused. Does someone think we're getting too close to the truth? I don't think we've made much progress at all."

Della shook her head. "I don't think so either," she said. "I can't imagine what's happening. All I know is that now you're in danger and I don't like it!" She walked over near the window. "It's gotten so completely out-of-control. First Mr. Burger and now _this. . . ._"

"He might not even be dead," Perry said. "And I have no intention of getting killed." He came over next to her, giving her a comforting smile. "I'll be alright, Della."

She looked up at him. She would have to believe that, somehow. She would go crazy if she didn't.

At last she walked away, back near the desk. ". . . If this isn't about getting close to the truth, what is it about?" she voiced.

Perry sighed. "It's possible I've been a target all along," he said. "The only thing is, three days haven't passed since the last body was found. And I haven't received one of those phone calls that the apparent intended victims all have. Nothing is adding up."

Della nodded. "You had nothing to do with Marcus Waden's trial, either," she said. "And that was what all of this was supposed to be about."

"It's possible we're completely wrong," Perry said. "But if so, what have I, Hamilton Burger, Anne Harding, and Donald Rite all been involved with together that would make us targets?"

"I can't imagine," Della said. "I don't remember that we ever met Anne Harding or Donald Rite before."

"I don't think we have," Perry said. He reached for the phone. "Now, I'm going to call the police—although at this point I don't have much I can tell them. Then . . ." He took the ominous scrap of paper out of his pocket. ". . . Then maybe we can work on what this means."

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg was less pleased than ever when he hung up with Perry. This case kept mutating into some sort of outlandish beast. Now this was a twist he had never thought he would see.

"Send a couple of officers to Perry Mason's office building," he ordered Sergeant Nichols, "and a couple more to his apartment. Someone called him a few minutes ago and warned him that someone is going to try to kill him tonight."

Nichols' eyebrows shot up. "I didn't think he was that involved with what's going on," he gasped.

"Apparently he's involved more than any of us realized," Tragg said. "Come with me; you and I are going to the telephone company to see if they can trace the call. The connection was bad and it didn't record on Perry's caller I.D. But we have to find that person if at all possible. There were two gunshots right before the line went dead." He got up from his desk, grabbing his hat.

Nichols followed him out of the office. "So someone didn't want him telling what was being planned," he said. "Poor guy; he's probably dead."

"He could be," Tragg said noncommittally. "But since we don't know, time is of the absolute essence."

Nichols concurred.

xxxx

Della sighed as she closed the last of the current stack of file folders. "That's it," she reported. "I can't find any cases where you and Mr. Burger, and Anne Harding and Donald Rite, were all involved. I can't find any mentions of those two at all. I don't know, Perry; I'm afraid this is a dead end."

"It could be," Perry frowned. He sounded occupied.

Della glanced over. "Haven't you made any progress with that note?"

"Unfortunately, not much," Perry replied. "The first line's first word could be 'said', but that doesn't tell us who's saying so. The second line could be referring to whom they're planning to get rid of. If it's someone we already know about, it might say 'Burger.' His is the only name that fits, supposing that 'er' is part of a name." He let the pencil drop to the desk. "And that third line has me completely puzzled."

Della leaned over to look. "'Te will know,'" she mused. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Perry; I can't imagine either."

The phone gave a sharp ring. Della jumped a mile. Dare she answer? She looked to Perry for confirmation, but he held up a hand to deter her.

"Let's suppose this might be that person calling back," he said. "I'd like to hear for myself what he has to say." He lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

A teenage boy's voice answered him. "Mr. Mason? I know it's late, but I just got in and heard your secretary's message. It sounded important."

"Who is this?" Perry queried in surprise.

"Terry Rite," was the reply. "I'm Donald Rite's son."

Perry perked up. "Why yes," he said, "it is rather important. Thank you for getting back to us. I wanted to ask you some questions about your father's death. It could mean the lives of several people."

"Including my dad's?" Terry said. "I heard about the woman at the hospital. It's all over the news and the police were by earlier, wondering if I knew anything about it other than that. I don't, but I wish I did!"

"I wish all of us did," Perry said. "Terry, would you be able to talk with us tonight? It is, as you say, late."

Della stared at him. How would he be planning to meet with anyone? Would they come here or would he go there? What if that was just the kind of break the assassin was looking for?

"Sure, I can talk tonight," said Terry. "I'd be glad to. I can come to your office right now, if you want."

"Wonderful," Perry said. "We'll be expecting you." He hung up. "Well, that was interesting."

Della regarded him in worry. "Perry, what if he's not who he says he is?" she demanded.

Perry glanced at the caller I.D. "The call came from the Rite house," he said. "But not to worry, Della; Lieutenant Tragg is sending a couple of men over. If Terry isn't what he claims to be, we'll have the police right here to catch him. So either way, we might get some answers."

Della sighed. "It's impossible not to worry," she said. "Especially now." But, resigned, she sank back in the chair. "Still, I'll try," she concluded with a weary smile.

Perry smiled too.

xxxx

Several minutes passed before there was a knock on the locked reception room's door. Perry hastened to open it. Della was right behind. Two policemen were standing in the hall, a shaken teenager between them.

"Well, good evening, officers," Perry greeted. He looked to the boy in the middle. "You must be Terry Rite."

"Y-yes," Terry stammered. "What is this?" He tried to pull free, but his arms were securely held back. "I showed up like you said, Mr. Mason, and these cops thought I was trying to commit a crime or something!"

"Did you send for him, Mr. Mason?" one of the police spoke up.

"That's right," Perry said. "I'm sorry; I should have informed you. I wasn't aware you had arrived."

"We pulled up about the same time he did," the second officer volunteered. Slowly he and his partner released their captive. "Well . . . if you say he's with you, Mr. Mason. . . ."

"We'll stay up here in the reception room, or out in the hall, if you don't mind," said the first.

"No, I don't mind," said Perry. "Thank you." He gestured to Terry. "Come in." As Terry followed, still trembling a bit, Perry pulled the door shut after him. "I'm sorry about your welcome," he said. "I sent for the police on another matter."

"That's alright," Terry said. "Just as long as they know I'm clean."

"It should be alright now," Perry said. "Oh, this is my secretary, Miss Della Street." Della smiled and Terry managed a shaky nod. "Sit down, won't you?"

Terry lowered himself into a chair. "What is it you want to know, Mr. Mason?" he asked. He gripped the arms. "I want to know if there's any chance my father is really still alive."

Perry walked around to the other side of his desk and sat down. "It's too early to tell," he said. "I don't want to give you any false hope. But it is true that the woman at the hospital is claiming to be Anne Harding. No one knows for sure yet."

He clasped his hands on top of the desk. "Terry, was there any warning that your father was going to be attacked?"

Terry leaned forward. "Yes!" he said immediately. "Yes, there was. He got a weird phone call saying he was going to die and that it was about time."

"Did he report this to the police?" Perry asked. Della sat next to him, beginning to take notes.

"Yeah," Terry said. "There was a police guard hanging out at our house." He looked away. "But that didn't help." His voice lowered, tinged with bitterness and horror. "I'm the one who found him."

Perry regarded him with sympathy. "How did the killer get in?"

"No one knows," Terry shrugged. "The police guard didn't see or hear anything. It was weird, like the creep just popped up out of thin air and disappeared the same way."

Perry frowned. "Did that telephone call mention anything about any other people who would be targeted later?"

"Maybe," Terry said. "I'm not sure, really. Except . . ." He trailed off, gazing into the distance. "He said the number three was important and bad things come in threes. None of us got what that meant."

"Threes . . ." Perry looked to Della with a sudden start. "Wasn't there a high-profile case three years ago that involved the number three?"

Della looked back in surprise. "I think there was," she said.

Perry nodded. "He was a serial killer, if I remember right," he said. "He was declared innocent by reason of insanity and committed to a mental institution."

Terry's eyes widened. "My dad dealt with that case," he exclaimed. "I remember that nut!"

Perry whirled back sharply. "What part did your father play?" he demanded.

"He was a witness," Terry said. "He'd seen the creep running away from one of his crimes. And . . . I think that lady, Anne Harding, was a witness too!"

Perry and Della exchanged an amazed look. This could be the other possibility for which they had been searching!

"Did the district attorney himself prosecute the case?" Perry wanted to know now. "Or was it assigned to a deputy?"

"It was Mr. Burger," Terry said.

Perry rose without warning. "That's it!" he cried. "It must be. Everything fits, even the unusual emphasis on the number three."

Della frowned, getting up too. "There's still the problem of why someone is trying to kill you, Perry," she said. "You weren't involved in that case."

Terry's mouth dropped open. "Is that why there's all those cops around?" he wondered.

"Yes," Perry said, and frowned. "You're right, Della. Actually, my being threatened doesn't match the other deaths for several reasons. There definitely seems to have been a pattern for them. Yet with me there was no threatening phone call, just one of warning. There's nothing to do with the number three—they're not waiting three days to go after me, and the very act of going after me disrupts their carefully planned system of three people killed—assuming that's what they were going after."

"So if it is connected, you probably weren't a target to begin with," Della said. Now she was starting to worry all over again. "Are you getting too close to the truth after all?"

"Maybe," Perry said. "Or maybe they're just worried I am. On the other hand . . ." He glanced out the window, then back to her. "Maybe there's still some other explanation."

xxxx

Paul sighed, exhausted and discouraged. The phone company had been little help in tracing that number. The signal had been too weak to even get an accurate reading on what was the number was. It had died before anything could be established. All they were certain of was that it was a cellphone, which really was not very useful information.

Lieutenant Tragg looked frustrated too. Paul had met up with him while there. Now he was coming outside with Sergeant Nichols.

He paused when he reached Paul. "Well, you won't have a very satisfactory report to give to Mr. Mason," he commented.

"Don't I know it," Paul said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Perry's not going to be happy about this."

"Neither are we," Tragg said. "I'm afraid there's very little likelihood of us finding who made that call while he's still alive—if he even is now."

"We could check places that are known to have weak cellphone signals," Sergeant Nichols spoke up.

"We'll have to try that," Tragg agreed. "But it could have simply been the battery running out. And in that case, the caller could have easily been in the middle of the city for all we'd know."

Paul ran a hand through his hair. "I don't envy you," he said. "I'd better call Perry and let him know what's going on. Then I might have to start checking possible places myself."

Tragg was no longer listening. He was staring at something off in the distance, his attention completely taken up by it. Confused, Nichols and Paul looked too.

Someone was half-stumbling, half-running towards them out of the darkness. As the figure drew closer, it was clear that his right arm was injured. It was held stiffly, and off and on he clutched at it with his left hand, as though trying to curb the flow of blood.

"Lieutenant Tragg!"

The seasoned policeman did not often look absolutely stunned out of his mind, after so many years on the force, but now the color drained from his face. He hurried forward, Nichols and Paul right on his heels.

"Lieutenant, someone's trying to kill Perry Mason!"

"Yes, we know about that," Tragg said. "Meanwhile, what have _you_ been doing?"

"Oh, an assassin chased me down from the mountain," was the dismissive, yet irritated, reply. "He's the one who's going to kill Mason if you don't get him."

Nichols turned and ran towards the squad car. "I'll call for backup," he said.

Paul shook his head. "Perry thought this could be true, but I didn't really believe it until just this minute," he said, looking Hamilton Burger up and down. "In fact, I'm still having trouble with it."

"_Why_ does everyone think I'm dead?" Burger exclaimed in exasperated disbelief. "I've only been gone a little over twenty-four hours."

"We'll talk about it later," Tragg said. He led Burger further into the light. "Let's have a look at that arm."


	6. Three

**Chapter Six**

Paul leaned against the side of his car with crossed arms, listening in amazement to Mr. Burger's story. Lieutenant Tragg, who was just finishing cleaning and binding Burger's arm, looked likewise surprised.

"So you can't recall what you could have seen in that cabin?" Tragg asked.

"I don't even remember _being_ in that cabin," Burger retorted.

Paul shook his head. "Well, you sure made that woman jumpy," he said. "And how'd you get away from that hitman again, after he was close enough to shoot you in the arm?"

"I don't know," Burger said in frustration. "I just went deeper into the trees and zigzagged around, and somehow I lost him."

"You're just lucky we were right here at the edge of town," Tragg frowned. "He could have easily tracked you down again if you had been alone." He peered at the other man. "Why didn't you contact anyone?"

"I couldn't," Burger said, annoyed. "I wasn't getting a signal on my phone."

"Most cellphones don't get a signal in the mountains," Paul said. It was not like him to defend any of the district attorney's actions, but he was a bit surprised by Tragg's question. Of course, perhaps Tragg was just upset due to having thought Burger had been the man killed last night. It had thrown the entire county of Los Angeles into upheaval. And completely aside from that, for that period of time Tragg had lost a friend.

Tragg nodded and stepped back. "The police are going to be combing the mountain looking for this assassin," he said. "One of us will drive you back to town." He paused. "You should probably take out a hotel room tonight."

"Good idea," Paul chimed in.

"It makes sense, but I still don't know what's been going on around here," Burger said, eyeing Paul as though he could tell all.

And Paul really did not want to be the one to say. He looked to Lieutenant Tragg for help.

"Someone was murdered in your house last night," Tragg relented. "The body was wearing your clothes and had been mutilated beyond recognition."

Burger stared at him in shock.

"And somebody fixed your car's blown-out tire and drove it back to your driveway," Paul added. "The police found it there when they found the body. The papers have been reporting all day that you were killed in your own house after a struggle with an unknown person."

At last Burger found his voice. "But the body couldn't have been identified as me, not after a thorough examination."

"Unfortunately, it was," Tragg told him. "The medical examiner, or someone in his office, lied in the report."

"And no one knows where he's gone," Paul said. "He hasn't been heard from since a woman showed up at the hospital claiming to be Anne Harding."

Now Burger's shocked look was focused on Paul. This case was growing more bizarre with each bit of information he was told. All together, the pieces they had were still a senseless mass.

"So other people were killed in our places while we were kept alive?" Burger frowned. "For what purpose? Obviously someone wants me dead as well as that impostor."

"We don't know yet what purpose there could be for keeping you and the others alive," Tragg said. "Hopefully we'll know more come morning."

"And I don't understand how Mason fits into all this," Burger said in irritation.

"Neither do we," Paul said. "I was hoping you could tell us."

"I have no idea," Burger retorted. "I just learned tonight that he's also a target." Absently, he reached up to rub at the bump on his head.

Tragg noticed. ". . . You can't recall anything about how you got away from the assassin when he cornered you at the hill by your car?" he prodded.

"No, I can't," said Burger. "I remember a gun going off, but I don't know how or why or if anyone was hit."

"And then everything's a blank until you woke up on the mountain in the afternoon," Paul said.

"Yes," Burger confirmed.

Tragg shook his head. "Well, I must say I don't know how you managed to travel that far on foot," he said. "Could you have gone in a car for part of the way?"

"It's possible," Burger said. "I don't know one way or another."

Tragg glanced to Nichols. "Contact all the cab companies in the city," he directed. "Find out if anyone matching Mr. Burger's description hailed a cab last night. Oh, and mention that he was likely behaving strangely, as though dazed or drugged."

Nichols nodded and reached for the radio.

Paul pushed himself away from the car door. "I'd hate to be in your shoes," he commented to Burger.

"What do you mean?" Burger asked warily.

Paul shrugged. "Well, not only are you being chased by a hitman and already got yourself hurt more than once, somebody was graphically killed in your house. I don't think they have the place cleaned up yet."

Burger gave him a look of distaste. Paul hurried to move to another subject.

"Oh, when you get back to the city, there's someone who's going to be especially happy to see you're still among the living."

"Who's that?" Burger queried.

Paul's answer was delivered smooth and swift. "Perry."

xxxx

Perry gave a tired sigh as he leaned back in his chair. Terry Rite had left several moments ago, promising to bring all the information he had on the "Number Three" case in the morning. The police were still in the reception room, on guard for anything strange or unplanned. And Perry and Della were still trying to work out the kinks in the idea that the deaths had been inspired by the "Number Three" case.

At last Perry let his hands drop to the desk in utter exasperation. "You know, if it wasn't for those gunshots, I'd almost believe the phone call was an unconnected prank or even an empty threat." He glanced to Della. "As it is, I'm sure the caller was serious. His warning meant something."

"But connecting it with the 'Number Three' case doesn't make sense," Della said.

"I know." Perry clasped his hands on his chest and looked up at the ceiling, thinking. ". . . It could be that people will be killed in multiples of three," he mused.

Della blinked. "How do you mean, Perry?"

"Like six or nine." Perry straightened. "I don't remember much about the details of the case, but I was thinking that boy had killed more than three people before he was caught."

Della shook her head. ". . . Are you thinking of going to see him?" she wondered.

"Perhaps," Perry said. "But first I think I'll contact his family. I'll pay a visit to their house first thing in the morning."

"Well, 'first thing in the morning' is going to be almost noon if you don't get some sleep," Della objected. "Why don't you rest on the couch in the library for the night?"

"I don't think I can sleep at all, Della," Perry returned. "And then there's Marcus Waden. How does he fit into all this? Or doesn't he? If these deaths are connected to the 'Number Three' case, does that mean Waden isn't involved? Or could he have requested that the assassin make the deaths look like they should connect with that case so that suspicion would be thrown off of him?"

"I don't know how he could have even hired an assassin," Della said. "Not unless it really was before the verdict was ever given."

"It's a possibility we have to keep in mind," Perry agreed. "With all the commotion from that telephone call, I forgot that I wanted to see Waden again. I'll have to take care of that in the morning, too."

The knock on the door cut off any further protest Della was about to make. Perry glanced over. "Come in," he called.

The door opened and Paul leaned in. "How are things here?" he greeted.

"Fine, Paul," Perry said. "Donald Rite's son called and then came to visit for a while. He had some very interesting information."

"How did you make out?" Della wondered. "Was the phone company able to trace that warning call?"

"No, but something incredible happened," Paul said. At last he stepped further into the room. "Do I really need to say this? You were right, Perry."

"Right about what?" Perry returned.

Paul jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "About our old friend and foe. Tragg and I ran into him stumbling into town when we were leaving the phone company."

Hamilton Burger walked into the office, his white fedora in hand. Perry froze. Della's mouth fell open. It was one thing to merely think and hope that someone was alive. It was quite another to see that it was true.

Burger was the first to break the silence. "I'm not as dead as everyone's been thinking I am," he said wryly.

Perry snapped out of his trance. "Hamilton," he said in quiet but joyous amazement. He went over, firmly grasping Burger's hand and then drawing an arm around his shoulders. "Come in; sit down."

Della came to life as well. "We've all been upset," she said as Perry led Hamilton over to the couch. "Where were you keeping yourself?"

"I was up in the mountains," Burger replied. "Not that I wanted to be." He told his story again, this time to Perry and Della. They listened, just as stunned as Paul and Tragg had been.

"You're lucky you made it back here alive," Perry frowned. "And after outsmarting that assassin more than once, he'll most certainly be out to get you all the more now."

"I know," Burger frowned. "I just can't figure out who could have hired him or what this is all about."

"Perry has a new theory about that," Della announced.

Paul regarded her in surprise. "He does? When did this happen?"

"While you were gone, Paul," Perry answered for her. "It was during Donald Rite's son's visit that the thought occurred to me." He looked to Hamilton. "Do you recall a case dubbed the 'Number Three' case by the press?"

Burger looked to him in surprise. "Yes," he said. Recovering he added, "I should have known you'd think of that one too."

"Naturally." Perry stood and walked to his desk. "Almost everything about these murders fits, except for why the killer is suddenly after me as well."

"I'm stumped on that one too," Burger admitted. "I just know I heard that assassin saying he was going to kill you if he couldn't find me. And he as much as admitted that he'd been hired to do it."

Perry paused, pondering. "Hamilton, could you access the casefile on the 'Number Three' case from here?" he asked.

"Of course," Burger said. "I was going to look it up myself later, but since I have no idea when things are going to go back to normal around here it would make more sense to do it now."

Perry gestured to his computer. "Go ahead," he said.

Burger stood and came to the desk. "This is one place I never thought I'd be sitting," he commented as he brought up the Desktop screen on the monitor. Soon he had a USB drive plugged into the computer and was opening a folder containing the files on all of his cases from three years previous.

"Technology is amazing, isn't it," Paul remarked. "All of that information contained in a space so small it fits in your hand."

Della nodded. She and Perry certainly made use of the miniature drives.

Burger clicked on the appropriate case and waited as it loaded. Then he began to scroll through it. "I forgot about this," he exclaimed after a moment. "Anne Harding's testimony was the main factor in convicting that kid, but something Donald Rite said put the final nail in the coffin."

Perry perked up. "And you prosecuted the case," he said.

"So the murderer might consider the three of you most responsible?" Della said.

"He could," Burger said. "Except I don't know why he wouldn't think the judge and the jury were just as responsible."

Perry walked around the desk to the other side. "One thing I think we've both learned is that a murderer's mind is often not rational," he said.

Burger was prevented from replying by the sound of gunfire from outside the office. He looked up with a start. Perry and Della both came to stunned attention. Paul reached for his own gun.

"What's going on out there?" Della cried. Her worry and terror were back in full force. Had the hitman arrived hoping to kill both Perry and Mr. Burger?

Paul seemed to be of that opinion. Gripping his gun, he inched closer to the door, ready and waiting in case someone burst in. For a tense moment nothing happened. Then there was a knock on the door.

"Everything's alright now," Tragg's voice called. "Can I come in?"

Paul opened the door. "What happened?" he exclaimed.

"We caught a suspicious character slinking into the outer office," Tragg reported. "It seems he had murder on his mind." He looked around Paul to Burger, who was coming over. "Would you be able to identify the assassin who was chasing you?"

"I don't know," Burger frowned. "The only time I got much of a look at him was last night, when he stood at the top of that hill and looked down at my car."

"Well, come and take a look at him anyway," Tragg said with a gesture. He stepped aside, allowing Burger to walk through into Della's office. The others followed right behind him.

The two officers who had escorted Terry Rite earlier were now restraining a sullen man with windswept brown hair and a dark suit. A pair of sunglasses had slipped down his nose to the point that they were about to fall off. He glanced briefly at Burger and Perry and then away.

"I thought the cops were outside," he objected.

"I took the incentive of having officers in both locations," Tragg smirked. "Then I decided it would also be profitable if I stayed myself, just in case something like this happened."

Burger stared at the intruder before shaking his head. "He's dressed the same, but he's not the one," he said. "I'd recognize his voice."

Perry stepped forward. "What was your purpose here?" he demanded.

The man gave a displeased shrug. "I was hired to kill you and the prosecutor," he said.

"By whom?" Perry persisted.

"I don't know," was the retort. "I got contacted over the phone two hours ago. This muffled voice asked me if I wanted to take on a new job. Business has been slow, so I said Yes. He said he'd send money and instructions to my place within an hour. Someone brought an envelope and knocked. I didn't see anyone when I went to get it."

"And what was in that envelope?" Burger asked.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars," the mercenary said, "and pictures of both of you. I was instructed to dress like this and slip into the building."

"Was this the first time you tried to kill either of us?" Perry wanted to know.

"Yes!" he exclaimed. Lowering his voice he added, "I guess I know now why business has been slow. I can't do anything right."

"And thank goodness for that," Della interjected, the ice obvious in her voice.

"Do you have the envelope with you?" Perry asked.

"We have it," Tragg said, holding it up. "But I'm afraid the instructions won't be much help. Everything was typed on a computer and printed off. And unfortunately, there's no way to trace a computer printer by the sheets it prints."

Perry sighed. "If this man is telling the truth, there isn't much more we can learn from him," he said. "But what bothers me is this timetable. He claims he was contacted two hours ago and told to come here. Two hours ago we thought Mr. Burger was dead and he was somewhere on a mountain. How would someone know that an assassin—or anyone else, for that matter—would find both of us here?"

"It doesn't make sense!" Paul cried in frustration.

"Well, it had better start making sense," Perry returned. "Someone wants to see Hamilton and me dead. Someone who is far more cunning and devious than this mercenary." He looked to Burger. "And you say this man is not the assassin you encountered."

"He isn't," Burger asserted.

"Then we have another hired killer to prepare for, in addition to whomever hired him," Perry said.

The ringing of Lieutenant Tragg's phone interrupted the conversation. He took it out, studying the screen for only a short moment. "Excuse me; this may be important," he said, turning away to answer.

After a moment he hung up and looked back to the others. "That was very important," he said. "Anne Harding is awake and insists on talking with us tonight, against her doctor's orders. She says what she knows could mean the lives of many people."


	7. Cabins

**Chapter Seven**

Della and Paul watched, stunned, as Perry hastened into his office to grab his coat and hat.

"Perry, you can't go out there," Paul objected. "Not with this threat against you."

"I have to hear what Anne Harding has to say," Perry returned, pulling on his coat as he spoke. "If she's telling the truth, this could be vital information. Besides, there probably won't be any further activity until morning, when whoever hired that assassin learns that Mr. Burger and I are still alive."

"But someone could be watching the building," Della said. "They'll see you leave!"

"I'll go out the back way," Perry said. "And I believe Hamilton will be coming with me. Paul, just in case someone else does come in, perhaps you should stay here with the police to nab them."

"I'm fine with that," Paul said. "I'm just wondering what's going to happen to you."

"Nothing bad, I hope," Perry said as he went back into Della's office.

Della chased after him, grabbing her own coat. "Well, don't think you're getting off that easy," she said. "I'm coming with you too."

Perry smiled, not seeming surprised. "The more the merrier," he said. "Let's go, Della, Hamilton." He glanced back. "Do a good job of holding the fort down, Paul."

Paul waved him off. "Just bring back something that will help us solve this case," he said.

Both Anne Harding and her sister Trisha looked towards the door when it opened. Trisha's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the group, particularly Della.

"Hello," Della greeted her with a smile. "So we meet again."

"I wasn't expecting to see you again," Trisha said, not unkindly. She shook her head. "I'm still in shock. After everything that happened, I can hardly believe that Anne is really alive!"

"I can hardly believe I was thought dead," Anne remarked. "And yet I knew that would happen. It was part of the plan I overheard."

Tragg stepped closer, holding out his badge. "Lieutenant Tragg, homicide," he greeted. "This is Perry Mason, his secretary Della Street, and our district attorney Hamilton Burger." He watched Anne closely for a reaction.

Her eyes widened. "I thought the district attorney had been killed," she gasped.

"Well, I wasn't, Ms. Harding," Burger told her.

Tragg regarded her with interest. "Why would you think he'd been killed?" he asked. "And what's this about 'the plan'?"

Anne sighed, leaning back into the pillows. Her countenance was so pale that her skin faded into the whiteness of the pillowcase. "Well, I didn't hear everything," she said. "It was late at night when someone broke into the house and kidnapped me. They knocked me out with some kind of chloroform. I woke up in a locked room in what looked like an old building.

"Sometimes I heard people talking outside the room. One time they were talking about getting the district attorney next. Then just today I heard them saying that all of Los Angeles was reporting his death."

"Who did these people seem to be?" Tragg queried.

"I don't know," she said. "One of them was definitely a hired killer. Both of them might have been."

"Ms. Harding, you said earlier that you were tortured." Burger spoke carefully and with empathy.

She looked to him. "I was," she said. "They barely gave me enough to eat. And they said that their employer was going to see to it that I suffered a lot more before I died for real. No one would be looking for me because they thought I was dead. And if they ever realized otherwise, it would be too late."

"Why were they doing such a thing?" Perry frowned. Tragg glanced to him, looking a bit irritated that everyone was getting into the interrogation.

"It had something to do with that boy Charlie Vaughen, I think," Anne frowned. "I testified against him three years ago."

"Do you think he had anything to do with what happened to you?" Burger asked.

"I doubt it," Anne said. "He's still in the institution, isn't he? He was mentally deranged. I don't know how he would have been allowed to talk to someone long enough to plan it all out."

"What about a close family member or friend?" Tragg finally got a word in again.

"Yes," Anne said slowly. "That could be. It wouldn't surprise me, anyway. It surely must be someone who had a strong connection with that boy."

"Ms. Harding, you said that the lives of many people might depend on what you could tell us," Tragg said. "What else do you know?"

She gripped a handful of quilt. "I know that there's going to be others," she said. "I think about eighteen all together—the judge, the jury, the main witnesses, and the district attorney." She glanced to Hamilton. "We're all supposed to be assembled, one by one, and brutally tortured before we're killed for real. Meanwhile, other poor people will be killed in our stead and mutilated to further belief that they're us." She shook her head. "I think they're mostly people who don't have any family or friends to report them missing."

"And they're killing someone and kidnapping someone else every three days?" Perry asked.

"Yes. It's always three." The confusion and helplessness were obvious in her voice. "That has to do with Charlie Vaughen too. Everything is based on three or multiples of it."

Tragg looked at her in all seriousness and concern. "Do you have any idea who's going to be next?"

"No, I don't," she said.

"Well, we have two days to find out and save them," Perry said.

Everyone was in varying states of disgust and disbelief when they left Anne Harding's room.

"This is far worse than I even thought," Perry frowned. "Eighteen people are to be killed, and if someone else is first killed in their place, that makes thirty-six people total. It's a full-scale massacre."

"Who could do something like this?" Della exclaimed in anger and bewilderment. She had asked Anne before they left if Anne had any idea why Perry had been targeted, but Anne could not fathom it. Perry was not connected to the case—or at least, he had not been, until they had believed that Burger had been killed. Anne felt that he should not be a target at all.

"Whoever it is, they must be as sick as Charlie Vaughen," Burger said. "No sane person could come up with something like this."

"We'll need a list of all the potential victims," Perry said. "And we'll have to try to determine if there's any pattern in how they're targeting people."

"I can get the list," Burger told him. "And what about talking to the kid's family? One of them might have something to tell that would help us."

"I hope so," Perry said. "I'm already planning to see them in the morning."

"What about Marcus Waden?" Della spoke. "Do you still think he could be involved?"

Perry glanced to her. "Anything's possible, Della," he said. "But unless Waden has some connection to Charlie Vaughen, I'd doubt it. With this many murders planned, there has to be a dark and deadly reason behind it—and I don't know why anyone would go to such lengths unless they have a personal vendetta against everyone who helped convict Charlie."

"But you weren't even there," Burger reminded him. "Something isn't adding up."

"I know." Perry sighed. "It's one of the most vital pieces. If we knew the explanation for that, a lot of things might fall into place."

Della frowned, watching them converse. With this new information, she was torn. She badly wanted to know who was behind this before they tried again to kill Perry or Mr. Burger. The next time they might not be so lucky as to escape serious injury or death. But she was aching all over from exhaustion. Perry and Mr. Burger surely were as well. It had been a long day for all of them. If they did not get any sleep, how would they have the strength to think?

All was quiet back at the office building, and in the office. Paul was sitting peacefully at the desk when everyone filed inside.

"Well?" he asked, looking up. "How'd it go?"

"Ms. Harding seems to be the genuine article," Perry said. "And her information is very vital. Move over, Paul; Mr. Burger needs to look up the Charlie Vaughen case again."

"This sure is a day for firsts," Paul commented. He got up, allowing Hamilton to sit at the desk.

"And how did things go here?" Della asked.

Paul shrugged. "Nothing happened," he said. "I don't know whether that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"I don't either," Perry mused.

Within minutes, the casefile and related information were back on the computer monitor. Hamilton scrolled through all of it, taking down the names and addresses of everyone involved in the trial. Tragg, who had come in with them, watched over his shoulder.

"I'll just take that list and locate these people," he said as Burger finished. "I'll see that all of them have police protection."

"I wish you would," Burger returned.

"I'll keep you informed of our progress," Tragg said, and hurried out.

"Meanwhile, we need to see if we can find a pattern amongst the potential victims," Perry reminded.

"And I don't know how you'll do it without any sleep," Della interjected now. "It's almost two in the morning!"

"Really, Della? It's that late?" Perry glanced at the clock. "I thought it was probably much later than that."

Della threw up her hands in resigned defeat. Paul gave her a sympathetic look.

"You know how Perry gets at a time like this," he said. "You can take just about any approach you can think of and it still won't work, not if his mind is made up."

Perry glanced her way, still largely occupied with the list. "You're welcome to go home, Della," he said.

She sighed. "You should know by now that I won't leave, not at a time like this," she said.

Perry smiled. "I know," he said.

Della started out of an unknown dream, nearly pitching forward and out of her chair. Grabbing the arm out of instinct, she steadied herself and looked blearily around the room.

By now it was morning; the sun was shining through the glass doors of the balcony. Perry's computer was still on, the low hum the only audible sound in the office. Mr. Burger had fallen asleep at the desk, slumped into the chair. Paul was dozing on the couch. Perry had likely remained awake the longest; he was sitting up and clutching several notes in his hand, as though having been studying them. But he was asleep now as well.

Della slowly leaned back, shaking her head in amazement at the scene. She had to be grateful that nothing else had gone wrong; at least, it surely couldn't have or the police—or someone else—would have awakened them. The last thing she remembered was poring over the names far into the night. And sometime among the names Benny Larsen and Cassandra Peters, all conscious thought had faded.

Easing herself out of the chair, she moved quietly over the floor, hoping to escape to her office without disturbing the men. She barely made it into the other room and shut the door when the phone rang. She snapped it up. "Hello?"

Terry Rite's voice came over the receiver. "Ms. Street?" He sounded nervous. "I got all the stuff together about the Charlie Vaughen case."

"Oh, that's good, Terry," Della said, and meant it. But she frowned at his tone. "Is everything alright?"

"I guess so," Terry said. "I'd just forgot a lot of this stuff. That Vaughen guy was really a nut. I hate to think of him or some buddy of his on a rampage now. And . . . I just wish I knew if my dad is still alive."

"Mr. Mason is doing everything he can to find out," Della soothed.

"I know, and I'm grateful. Well, when should I bring these things by?" Terry asked.

"What all is it?" Della wondered, reaching for a pen and paper. "We have the casefile here."

"Oh, there's newspaper articles all about the trial," Terry said. "There's a couple about how Charlie Vaughen is doing in the looney bin, too." Now there was obvious distaste in his voice.

Della frowned. "Why would your father have been keeping all of those things?" she wondered.

"He was really interested in the case," Terry said. "He'd always been kind of a little guy, someone who wasn't really noticed much. And that case was his first real chance to do something big. He saved everything about it as a memento or something."

"I see." That was understandable enough. "Well, thank you for getting it together, Terry," Della went on. "I know Mr. Mason will be pleased. He'll want it as soon as possible, if it's not any trouble."

"No trouble," Terry said. "I'm anxious to get it to him. I'll come by in about thirty minutes."

"Alright. We'll be waiting for you," Della said.

The door opened around the same time she hung up. "Who was that?" Perry queried.

"Good morning to you too," Della said wryly. "That was Terry Rite. He's bringing over the other information he has on the Vaughen case."

"Oh really? That's good to hear; we can certainly use it." Perry sighed. "We were up more than half the night and we still didn't find any pattern among any of the victims. We don't have any idea who might be next."

"Hopefully Lieutenant Tragg and his men can figure it out," Della said. She walked away from the desk. "Meanwhile, I suggest we all have some breakfast. Terry won't be here for thirty minutes."

"Did I hear someone mention food?" Paul said as he peered into the room.

Della looked to him, amused. "Yes. And don't worry, I'll order enough that you can have seconds," she said.

Paul's eyes lit up. "Great!"

Hamilton wandered to the doorway now, still looking half-asleep. "What are we talking about?" he wondered.

"Breakfast," Perry said grandly. "And after that, perhaps we'll be able to shed some light on this case."

Two and a half hours later, Paul let out a frustrated breath as he tossed the last newspaper onto the stack on the table.

"Well, that's it," he said. "All of this stuff is interesting, but I don't see anything that could really be a clue."

"Nor do I," Perry frowned. "Although this reputed comment of Charlie Vaughen's is odd."

"You mean where he says that everyone who put him away is going to get his," Paul said.

Perry nodded. "Exactly. What's the date of that newspaper?"

Hamilton, who was the closest to it, leaned forward. "A few days before the first murder," he reported.

"Interesting, isn't it," Perry remarked. "Almost as though he knew something was going to happen."

"Do you think he did?" Paul wondered.

"I don't know," Perry said. "The nurse who claimed he said it mentioned that he spoke in a 'dark, but somehow gleeful' tone of voice. If that's correct, then I would say he could have known."

"Can the police get in to talk to him about it?" Della asked.

"They'll try," Perry said. "But I don't know if they'll learn anything." He stood, crossing to the telephone. "I'm going to get in touch with his family now."

"Don't bother, Perry; I already tried," Burger said, glancing over at him.

Perry looked to him in surprise. "When was this?"

"When you went to talk with the police officers in the hall." Burger sighed. "I didn't have a chance to tell you after, since Terry came back with you and we started on this." He gestured at the newspapers.

"Well, it sounds like it didn't go well," Perry commented.

"It didn't," Burger said in irritation. "The housekeeper answered the phone. She said the family's staying at their cabin in the mountains for a few days and they don't have telephone service there. She'll tell them I called when they get back."

"But that might be too late," Perry said. "When does she expect them back?"

"That's just it—she doesn't know." Burger threw up his hands in exasperation. "She said it could be two or three days or even a week!"

Perry frowned deeper, contemplating this turn. At last he looked up. "Where is this cabin?" he asked. "We might need to go up there to talk with them. With so many lives at stake, we really can't wait for them to come back down."

"I know. I called Lieutenant Tragg and asked him to find out where it is." Burger picked up one of the papers, idly glancing at it. "He said he'd call when he learned something."

"What about finding all of the other eighteen potential victims?" Paul spoke.

"Oh, he's located all but two. Denise Martel is currently somewhere in New York, talking to some Broadway producer. And Everett Johnson is on a business trip in Paris." Burger let the paper drop back to the table. "The police in those areas have been contacted. But unless the killer plans to go traveling, those two probably aren't in danger yet."

"There's no telling what this killer will do," Perry said. "It would seem more logical to get rid of all of the local people first, it's true. But will his or her mind work that way?"

"It would seem more logical not to kill anyone at all," Paul remarked.

Perry glanced over. "Touché, Paul."

At that moment the office phone rang. Della got up, hurrying over to it. "Hello?" She blinked in surprise at the voice on the other end. "Just a minute, Lieutenant." She held out the receiver. "It's for you," she said, looking to Mr. Burger.

He came over. "Thank you." He took the phone. "Hello, Tragg. What did you find out?" The others watched as his expression turned to shock. "Are you sure?" he demanded. After listening for a moment, he moved to hang up. "I'll be right out," he said. With a glance at Perry he added, "And I probably won't be alone."

Perry was standing before the receiver was back in its cradle. "What was that all about?" he asked. "Where are we going?"

Burger looked to him, clearly stunned. "Tragg's men were up investigating the cabin where I was last night," he said. "No one was there, but they found blood under a rug by the couch. And they just learned who owns the cabin. Charlie Vaughen's family!"


	8. Memories

**Chapter Eight**

The ride to the mountains was tense and confused. Mr. Burger could not even begin to explain what had happened at the cabin; his mind was still a complete blank on everything that had transpired after the assassin had held him up with a gun. Perry hoped that seeing the scene would awaken his colleague's memories, but of course there was no way of knowing it would happen.

The top was up on Perry's black convertible and Mr. Burger kept his fedora pulled low. They had mutually decided that it would be better not to reveal just yet that he was alive and start a new flurry of publicity. Perry was keeping to the back roads, hoping to stay out of the public eye as much as possible.

Della and Paul were both in the back, keeping watch on the traffic around them. So far it did not look like they were being followed by anyone except the plainsclothesmen in their unmarked car. But they stayed tense. This case had been utterly bizarre so far; they did not feel that they could rely on any one thing anymore.

"I don't understand that other information Lieutenant Tragg relayed."

Burger glanced over when Perry broke the silence. "That makes two of us," he retorted.

Paul watched them, his arm hanging over the edge of the backrest. "The only cab driver that reported someone of your description said the guy was completely alert, not dazed or dizzy at all," he said.

"And someone was after him," Della put in.

"Everything else fits," mused Perry. "Finally the cab was blocked off near the mountains and the passenger got out. According to the driver's testimony, the man assumed he was going to die either way and that if he left, the assassin might not kill the driver too."

"The driver wasn't so noble," Paul said in disgust. "All the hitman had to do was whip out his gun and threaten the guy to be quiet, and he didn't say a word about any of this until the police grilled him and promised him protection."

Perry glanced at Hamilton, who was quiet but frowning in concentration. "It's far too much of a coincidence," he said quietly. "Hamilton, could you have been struck on the head later than you thought?"

Burger looked to him. "If that was me, I guess I must have been," he conceded. "But I can't figure out when it would've happened."

Perry turned onto the mountain road. "How about this? You managed to stay ahead of the assassin long enough to reach that cabin. You knocked and the woman let you in. She told you there was no telephone.

"While you were there you either witnessed a crime or the evidence from it, perhaps the blood on the floor. Someone wanted to keep you quiet, so you were attacked from behind and hit over the head."

"Nice theory, but it doesn't explain how I ended up in the woods away from the cabin," Burger pointed out. "Would they have left me alive if they caught me like that? They'd have no way of knowing that I'd wake up with amnesia. Anyway, that woman told me that I was already dazed when I first showed up."

Perry sighed. "I know; there's holes in the idea. But if you can think of a better way that you could have been hurt, then let me know."

"I'll do that," Burger said wryly.

Following the directions Lieutenant Tragg had given, they soon found their way onto a dirt road that wound around the stand of trees Hamilton had hidden in the previous night and led them directly to the side of the cabin. Several police cars were already there. The unmarked vehicle pulled up behind them.

Della stepped out, pulling her sweater closer around her with the autumn chill. "It's a shame something terrible happened here," she said. "It's really quite lovely."

The others exited the car as well, walking towards the porch. Burger frowned at it. Where could the woman have gone that he had talked with? Obviously she was mixed up in whatever was going on, after the way she had conversed with the assassin. Was she part of the Vaughen family? Maybe this insane massacre was the brainchild of the entire clan.

Lieutenant Tragg stepped through the open doorway and onto the porch. "Well, I see you made it out safely," he greeted.

"Hello, Lieutenant," Perry said. "Did you find anything else since you spoke with Mr. Burger?"

"Come in and see," Tragg said. He turned to lead them inside. The quartet followed, stepping into a combined living room and kitchenette. The couch and most of the chairs were wicker, although there were several items made of a dark, smooth wood.

Tragg stopped near the couch, where the rug had been pulled back. "The blood is right here," he said. "We've also found traces of it on the couch's legs and cushions."

Burger went over slowly, studying the stains. Perry came up behind him. "Does anything seem familiar?" he asked.

Burger stopped where he was, looking blankly at the floor. "I don't know," he said. A pounding had started in his head. He reached up, clutching at the location of the bump.

Tragg turned back. "Mr. Burger, are you alright?" he asked in concern.

Hamilton barely heard him. The pounding was loud enough to drown out all other sounds—except for the voices echoing through his mind. The words were not distinct, but the tones were raised and angry.

"I was in this room," he said, his own voice stunned and far away. "There were people arguing."

Perry snapped to attention. "Who?"

"I don't know. Two men. I think . . ." Hamilton paused, taking several steps further into the room. "I think one of them was trying to stop the other one from doing . . . something." He glowered at the couch in frustration. "I can't remember."

"Don't try to force it," Tragg told him.

Perry nodded. "It will come to you." At least, he hoped so. That information was likely critical to what had happened the other night.

Sensing the need for a subject change, Tragg walked over near a door at the back. "This leads into a bedroom," he announced, pushing it open halfway. "If there was anything identifiable, it was taken out."

Della wandered over, curious. "There aren't even any clothes?"

"Especially no clothes," Tragg said. "The closet was cleaned out."

"Is this the only other room in the cabin?" Perry asked.

"No, there's a small bathroom through there." Tragg pointed to a door on the other side of the living room wall. "There's nothing strange about it either, except that the sink looks and smells like it was thoroughly scrubbed as recently as several hours ago."

"Such as to clean away bloodstains?" Perry went over and opened the door, peering into the room. Tragg was right about it being small; there was barely enough space to walk along the corridor of the room without turning sideways.

"Now, let's not jump to conclusions, Perry," Tragg said, appearing behind him. "But yes, there could have been blood in the sink. They probably tried washing it off the couch and the floor too, and found it was already set in."

Perry turned to face him. "Did you find any kind of a weapon, Lieutenant?"

"No, no weapon," Tragg replied.

Perry looked to Burger. "Could one of the men you saw have been that assassin, the one still at large?"

"It could have been, yes," Burger said. He walked slowly around the room, still looking intently at the offending couch and stain on the floor. The argument had increased in its intensity, he remembered that much. But it was all so vague in his mind, as though he was seeing it through a fog or veil.

A gun had gone off. . . .

He looked up with a start. "One of the men was shot in the face!" he cried. "The other man shot him down in cold blood. There wasn't even time to struggle for the gun."

He stared at the space again, this time in shock and horror. He could see the blood splattering . . . the body falling. . . . The other man standing over it, breathing heavily, seeming haunted. . . .

Perry frowned deeply. ". . . The mutilated body in Mr. Burger's house," he said, looking to Tragg. "That man was shot in the face."

"Yes," Tragg nodded, thoughtful.

Perry walked over to Hamilton. The district attorney still seemed lost in his memories. Perry reached out, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Hamilton . . ."

Burger did not start in surprise or shock; he had either expected Perry's approach or was too numb to really process it. "I can't remember the murderer's face," he said. "But he wasn't an assassin; I'm not sure he'd ever killed before. He was shaken up by what he'd done."

"Do you remember anything else?" Perry asked quietly.

"I ran over. . . . I demanded to know what was going on. And then . . ." He stiffened as it came back. "That's when the assassin came in!"

Tragg had come over by now as well. "What happened then?" He was quickly scratching out on his notepad what Burger was saying.

"The murderer looked over at him. He told him to kill me, that he couldn't do any more shooting himself." Burger stared off into the distance. "The hitman came at me. We struggled. Then the gun went off into the ceiling." He recoiled. "He brought it down hard on the back of my head."

Della flinched. The story he was telling was horrible.

He walked away from the scene, almost subconsciously moving towards the wall. "I was dazed, but I was still conscious. Somehow I managed to turn off the lights." He found the switch and flipped it off. "In all the confusion I staggered out the door and tried to go for help." He walked to the door and then stopped, turning around. "Instead of going down the mountain, I must've gone up," he said in disgust. "I don't remember anything more after that."

Perry started towards him. "It's a miracle you weren't caught and killed," he said. Della nodded firmly in agreement.

"And you say you can't remember the murderer's face?" Tragg spoke, his voice and manner solemn.

"No, I can't." Burger stepped away from the door. "The woman wasn't there, though; I know that much."

"Where was she?" Perry wondered.

"I don't remember," Burger said. "I don't even know if she's the one who answered the door." He frowned. "Maybe she really didn't know much of what was going on. I remember her telling the assassin that I was dazed coming up the mountain."

"She could have meant when you went up the mountain past the cabin, and not when you went up the mountain _to_ the cabin," Perry pointed out.

"That's true," Burger realized. "But what part could she have in all this?"

"That's one thing we need to find out," Tragg said. "You didn't ever hear her name, by any chance?"

"No, I didn't," Burger frowned.

"When was it that you saw the two men having their confrontation?" Perry asked. "When you first entered the room or later on?"

"I can't tell you that." Burger turned away, running a hand over his face. "I just remember what I've already told you. I don't even have any idea if that cab driver's story is true!"

"You remembered this much," Paul spoke up.

Della nodded. "I'm sure the rest of it will come back to you."

"Yes, but when?" Burger started to pace the floor. "There could be something else important in what I haven't remembered. We haven't got the time to wait for it to come back to me."

Perry sighed. Hamilton certainly had a point, but there was little that could be done. They would just have to work with the case as best as they could without whatever other information he might have.

"Do you remember what the other man looked like?" Tragg spoke up. "The one who was shot?"

"I never got a good look at him," Hamilton said. "By the time I could have seen him clearly, the bullet had made him unidentifiable."

"Could he have been passed off as you in your house that night?" Tragg persisted.

Burger paused, considering that idea. "I guess it's possible," he finally said. "He could have been around my height and weight."

"What I don't get is why they were trying to kill you," Perry jumped in again. "According to Anne Harding, everyone was to be gathered and tortured before being killed."

"She did say that," Burger remembered. "Well, maybe they thought I'd seen too much to stay alive."

"Perhaps," Perry said, his tone noncommittal.

"Do you have some other idea, Mr. Mason?" Burger asked dryly.

"Not at the moment, but I'll get back to you on that," Perry answered.

"Thank you," Burger returned, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"Well, things are getting back to normal now," Paul commented to Della as they observed.

"And I'm sure Perry is just fine with that," Della said.

Perry sensed, however, that the banter was at least partially Burger's way of trying to push aside his true, shaken feelings. And when, after personally searching through both the bedroom and the kitchenette, Perry came back to find Hamilton sitting and leaning forward in a chair, he was sure of it all the more.

"Hamilton?" Burger looked up with a start. "Are you alright?"

Burger's answer was quick—too quick. "Oh sure." But then he sighed in resignation and fell back against the chair. "I'm not fooling anyone, am I."

"No, I'm afraid not." Perry sat down next to him.

Burger idly toyed with the brim of his hat, held in his hands, as he considered his reply. "You know, it's funny. I've tried Heaven knows how many murder cases. I've seen photos of probably every gruesome kind of death you can imagine. And yet this has got me completely rattled."

"There's a difference, Hamilton," Perry said. "The photographs you've seen are all after the fact. And they're still just photographs. You've never before witnessed a murder happening in real-time, certainly not one so graphic. What you saw and were unable to prevent would rattle anyone."

Hamilton thought about that for a moment. "I guess you're right—again," he added wryly. But then he sobered, the vague trace of a smile on his features. "Thanks."

Perry nodded.

"Oh," he remembered, changing the subject, "Lieutenant Tragg found something in the kitchenette cupboard. You said that woman was shaking something into whatever she was going to give you last night?"

"Yes, she was," Burger frowned. "And Tragg thinks he found what it was?"

"It's a possibility," Perry said. "It was something purchased at a health store—a powder of natural ingredients known to induce sleep."

Burger stared at him in surprise, but then his eyes glittered. "Of course," he said. "She was trying to knock me out. That would fit with what Anne Harding said about the victims. Somebody was probably going to drag me off to that warehouse."

"We need to find that warehouse," Perry remarked. "Donald Rite could be a prisoner there. And even if he isn't, there could be a great deal of incriminating evidence."

Burger concurred.

After a moment Lieutenant Tragg made his way over to them. "Mr. Burger, may I talk to you for a moment?" he asked.

"Of course," Burger said. "What is it?"

Perry excused himself, moving to see if Paul or Della had found anything. Tragg took up his chair. "I suppose Perry told you about the sleeping powder in the cupboard."

"Yes, he did," confirmed Burger. But he frowned, slightly confused. Somehow he had the feeling that this was not what Tragg really wanted to say.

The veteran policeman cleared his throat, looking a bit awkward. "I'm sorry about what you went through and what you witnessed," he finally said. "However . . . I'd rather it was this way instead of that you were the man who was shot."

Mr. Burger looked at him in surprise, temporarily at a loss for words.

Tragg did not seem to want to prolong the moment. Having said his piece, he started to get up. "Well," he said gruffly, "just try to stay out of such hands-on experiences with crime from now on."

Mr. Burger rose with him. "I will, if I can help it," he returned. He would not reference Tragg's earlier comment, as neither of them really wanted to nor knew what to do with it. But he understood the meaning behind it and was touched.

"Good," Tragg nodded.

Sergeant Nichols, who had been outside contacting police headquarters on the radio, now came back into the room. He hastened to Lieutenant Tragg, speaking quietly and seriously. Tragg pushed back his hat, intensely interested in what was being told.

"Sergeant Nichols was just talking with Sergeant Brice back at headquarters," he announced at the conclusion. "There's been some news on the missing medical examiner."

Everyone came to attention. "Has he been found?" Burger wondered.

"No," Tragg said, glancing to Nichols. "But we've been checking into his background. Sergeant Brice discovered a little-known, yet highly interesting, bit of information."

Sergeant Nichols stepped forward. "Leroy Fielder, the medical examiner, is a fourth cousin to Charlie Vaughen," he declared.


	9. Voices

**Notes: I hope I've written Gertie alright. I haven't seen her too much and I can't recall where I read the most detailed information I found about her, so I can't go back and read it again. And for some reason, I strongly picture the woman Paul is talking with to look like Joi Lansing, a very classy actress.**

**Chapter Nine**

The drive back to town was filled with confusion and questions. Sergeant Nichols' announcement had only thrown another wrench into the intricacies of the twisted case.

"I don't know about you, but to me this is starting to look like a real family affair," Paul commented. "Maybe they actually are all in on it together."

"What I don't understand is why," Burger frowned. "I could understand one black sheep or even two, but the entire clan? It's not even like Vaughen was killed; he was just sentenced to an institution for the criminally insane."

Paul sighed. "Well, maybe they didn't want to see him locked up for the rest of his life," he said.

"Surely at least some of them would see that it was necessary," Della said.

Perry nodded, keeping his attention on Lieutenant Tragg's car ahead of them. "Tragg wants to stop in at the Vaughen's house and question the maid further about the family's whereabouts," he said.

"That's a good idea," Burger said. "If Tragg hadn't already planned on it, I would have suggested it."

"And I would have if neither of you had," Perry said with a smile.

xxxx

The Vaughen residence was a large, three-story house in the Hollywood Hills, complete with a sprawling yard and long driveway. Paul looked around in awe as they parked. "Boy oh boy, what a set-up they've got here," he said appreciatively.

"I remember what a scandal the Vaughen case was when it came out," Della said.

"So do I," Perry said. "All of their prestige and fame only made it worse for one of their own to be discovered as a serial murderer." He frowned. "I had thought that they by and large disowned Charlie after the trial's conclusion."

"They did," Hamilton said. "He hardly ever receives visitors. That's another reason why I can hardly believe they would have been involved in any of this."

"Maybe they weren't," Perry said.

The quartet exited the car, following Lieutenant Tragg and the other police up the winding walkway to the porch. Tragg arrived first and rang the doorbell. In a moment the heavy white door was opened by a plump woman with short, messy curls. She frowned at Tragg and the other officers. "What is this?" she demanded.

Tragg held out his badge. "Lieutenant Tragg, homicide. We're trying to locate the Vaughen family to question them about a case."

She leaned on the door. "I talked to someone earlier on the telephone who was asking for them," she said. "I told him that they were at their cabin and wouldn't be back for several days."

"Oh, that's very interesting," Tragg said. "We just came from a cabin that was the scene of a recent murder. And according to our information concerning it, it's owned by the Vaughens." He held out a photograph. "Is this the cabin you're speaking of?"

She took it, stiffening as she did. "N-no, I don't think so," she said. "But I've only been along a time or so; I'm just the housekeeper. I tend things around here when they're gone."

"And when was the last time you 'went along'?" Tragg asked.

"Several weeks ago, at least," she said, handing back the picture.

"Weren't you there just last night?"

The color drained from her face at the new, distinctive voice. The police parted, allowing Hamilton to come up on the porch. She drew back, gripping the door with whitening fingers.

"You thought you were clever, didn't you?" Burger continued. "I didn't recognize your voice on the phone; you must've purposely disguised it. But I recognize you now. You're the woman who was at the cabin when I stumbled on it the night before last."

"No!" she spat, finally finding her voice. "You're wrong. I've never seen you before!"

"Then why did seeing me upset you so much?" Burger returned.

"It didn't!" she said. "I . . . I was upset by what you said."

"Because you _were_ at the cabin last night," Burger said.

"Because I _wasn't,_" she shot back in all stubbornness.

"Then may I ask where you were last night?" Tragg interrupted.

She let go of the door at last, crossing her arms over her chest. "I was right here," she said.

"Can anyone confirm your alibi?" Perry queried as he stepped onto the porch next to Hamilton.

". . . No," she admitted, sulking and looking away.

"In any case, the Vaughens most definitely were not there," said Perry. "And we didn't pass them on the road into town. How do you account for that?"

"They went for a hike, maybe," she said.

"Then they're in for quite a shock when they come back," Tragg said. "A man was murdered in their living room."

She swayed, but caught herself. "How do you know that?" she demanded. "Did you find a body?"

"No, but there was blood," Tragg replied. "And an eyewitness."

Burger nodded. "I remember what happened," he said flatly. His eyes narrowed. "I saw a man shot in the face. A man who may have been dragged down to my house and whom the majority of the county might still think is me."

The housekeeper's defensive nature seemed to crumble at these words. Her shoulders slumped and she stepped aside from the doorway. "Then there's no point in me trying to convince you any further," she said. "Come in, you and the police and everyone else."

xxxx

Within moments, the group was situated in the living room. The housekeeper, Marnie Wagner, stayed standing, beginning to pace the room as she talked.

"The Vaughens aren't involved with any of this," she said. "You have to believe me about that. They don't want anything to do with Charlie, not now that everyone knows how . . . troubled he is."

"The missing medical examiner is a fourth cousin of Charlie's," Tragg pointed out.

"Well . . ." Marnie threw up her hands in resignation, then let them drop. "I'm sure that wasn't intentional."

"Just what do you think _was_ intentional, Miss Wagner?" Burger retorted. "And who is the mastermind behind this outrageous plot?"

She sank into a chair, twisting her hands in her lap. "I don't know," she said. "We only communicated by mail. He knew some . . . things about my past that he used to persuade me to help. He wanted someone from the inside, someone who knew about the Vaughens' schedules and where they go and things like that."

"Why, Miss Wagner?" Perry asked.

"I don't know!" she repeated in mounting excitement. "I didn't ask questions. I just did what was wanted of me."

"Including going up to the cabin," Hamilton surmised. "What were you supposed to do there?"

"As far as I know, it didn't have anything to do with you, Mr. Burger," Marnie said. "I was just supposed to take Colin there and wait for Leroy."

"Leroy Fielder is the medical examiner," Tragg said in surprise. "Were you waiting for him?"

"Yes." Marnie looked down. "Colin is Colin Worth, the Vaughens' gardener."

"Were they the two men I saw?" Burger demanded.

Marnie nodded. "I . . . I didn't know shooting Colin was part of the plan," she said, her voice cracking. "I don't know what's going on anymore. All of us were mixed up in this because we were being blackmailed by the same mysterious person." She shook her head. "And then I found out Derrick was involved too. . . ."

"Who's Derrick?" Perry asked.

"Derrick Manning." Marnie's voice was quieter now. "I knew him years ago, in school. Now he's . . ."

"A professional killer for hire," Tragg finished. "He's been on the police's wanted list for years."

"He said he was supposed to kill Mr. Burger and Mr. Mason," Marnie said, "that he'd been hired to and he didn't know why or who hired him. But he didn't care."

"Then he's the one I heard talking to you at the cabin," Burger realized.

"Miss Wagner, do you know anything about the other assassin?" Perry broke in again.

She gave him a blank look. "What other assassin? Derrick works alone."

"Last night an assassin tried to break into my office to murder both myself and Mr. Burger," Perry said. "According to his testimony, the mysterious person who hired him was very specific about the time he was supposed to kill us. What we would like to know is, How did this unknown person know we would both be in my office at that time of night?"

"I have no idea," Marnie said, shaking her head. "But it doesn't surprise me any. Whoever's been pulling the strings knows a lot about everyone—more than they should at all!"

"Miss Wagner, who knew about these . . . compromising things from your past?" Tragg wanted to know. "Can you think of anyone who did?"

"No," Marnie said with a frown.

"Were you working for the Vaughens at the time you were involved in whatever it was?" Perry rejoined.

"I wasn't," she said. "I was working for Harold Arthur at the time."

"The businessman?" Perry said in surprise.

She nodded. "I kept house for him, like I've done here, for the Vaughens."

"That reminds me," Tragg said, in a tone of voice that meant he had not needed reminding at all. "Where are the Vaughens, Miss Wagner? Are they truly on a hike?"

"No." Marnie sighed. "They're at a cabin, alright, but it's in the Sierras." She looked away. "I was going to go back up to the cabin around here with better cleaning tools to scrub the floor and couch. I didn't want there to be any trace of a murder."

"So Leroy Fielding, the medical examiner, shot Colin Worth because he was being blackmailed into doing so?" Perry said.

"That's right," Marnie nodded. "And his body _was _used as a substitute for Mr. Burger. I was told later to type up a note and pretend it came from Colin, saying he was quitting his job and leaving Los Angeles."

"So no one would look for him, at least for a while," Tragg said.

"Exactly. He didn't have any family to miss him." She paused, puzzled as she stared into the distance. "That's odd," she said.

"What is?" Perry asked.

She glanced to him. "I just remembered," she said. "Colin worked for Harold Arthur too. So did Leroy. Before he went into studying to be a forensics expert, he had a small funeral parlor. Mr. Arthur used his services once or twice."

Perry frowned deeply and turned to look at Paul. It was an all-too-familiar look. Once they left here, Paul would be off to research more on Harold Arthur.

xxxx

"There's one thing that still bothers me."

Everyone looked up as Perry spoke. They had gathered back in his office following Marnie Wagner's arrest. By now it was late afternoon; the autumn sun was making its last patterns of the day across the office floor and desk.

"Just one thing?" Paul shook his head. "There's a lot of things that are bothering me, such as what this Harold Arthur guy has to do with any of it. The guy's a complete recluse! He never comes out, always has his vice-president or someone on the board of directors talk to the press, and he keeps a very tight-lipped and well-paid staff! I couldn't get a word out of anybody."

"That bothers me too," Perry admitted, toying with a pen on his desk, "but what I'm thinking of is what Mr. Burger's neighbor said on the night of the murder."

"Why?" Burger asked, bewildered. "What did she say?"

Perry glanced to him. "She said she heard you arguing with someone right before a struggle," he said.

"But that's impossible!" Burger objected. "I wasn't anywhere near my house at that time!"

"I know," Perry nodded. "And as far as I can tell, that only leaves two possibilities. Either she heard a well-edited recording of you arguing with someone . . . or there actually were two living people in your house, with one of them being a voice impersonator."

"Someone was hired to imitate Burger?" Paul blinked in surprise.

"Why not?" Perry returned. "They had to give the illusion that he was home at the time, in order to further substantiate the idea that the body was his.

"Paul, I want you to look up freelance voice actors in Los Angeles. See if you can find a way to discover whether any of them might have been hired recently to impersonate the district attorney."

Paul gaped at him. "Perry, do you have any idea how many voice actors there are in L.A.?" he exclaimed. "And if one of them was hired to impersonate Burger, do you think they'd tell me? Even if they didn't realize then that the whole set-up was to help commit a crime, by now they'd have heard about the murder. They'd probably be too afraid to confess to any part of what happened in case they'd be arrested as an accessory!"

"Yes, Paul, I know," Perry said, still calm and collected. "It's also possible that none of them were involved. Maybe someone will be willing to talk to you about a voice actor, either a professional or an amateur, that they know of who could have participated."

Paul sighed. "Okay," he said in resignation, easing himself off of the edge of the desk. "I'll see you later. When, I don't know."

"Try to make it back before midnight," Perry called, smiling, after him.

Paul muttered something under his breath.

As he was going out, Gertie was coming in. "Mr. Mason, I'm sorry I'm late," she called, perky and cheery as ever. "I just got in from Cindy's wedding in Portland and . . ."

She let out an alarmed and stunned cry as she arrived in the office. Her purse slipped from her hands, falling to the floor. Perry stood and crossed the room, bending down to retrieve it. "Is something wrong, Gertie?" he asked as he straightened.

Gertie was staring at Mr. Burger, her eyes wide as saucers. "Mr. Mason, Mr. Burger is dead!" she exclaimed. "I heard it on the radio when I was coming into town! But . . . but . . ." She pointed a shaking finger. "He's . . ."

"A ghost?" Perry supplied.

Burger got up, feeling awkward. "I'm not a ghost," he said to Gertie. "I'm not dead at all; it was a false report. I'm sorry for scaring you."

Gertie recovered quickly. "Oh, that's okay," she said. "I was just surprised, is all. It was already a big shock to hear you were dead, and then to walk in and see you sitting here like nothing in the world's wrong . . . !"

Perry nodded. "Let's just keep this our little secret for now, alright?"

Gertie turned to look at him. "Sure, Mr. Mason," she said. "But why?"

Perry glanced to Hamilton for confirmation that he still felt the same. "As long as the majority believes Mr. Burger is dead, it will help our investigation more than if they come to realize he's still among the living," he explained. He steered Gertie towards the door. "Once it's all over, the truth will come out."

"Well . . . okay then," Gertie said slowly, allowing herself to be steered. "You're the boss, Mr. Mason."

"That's right. Now, you run along, Gertie," Perry said. "Don't worry about coming in late; it's perfectly understandable."

He closed the door behind her and turned back to face Mr. Burger. "I'm sorry about that, Hamilton," he said. "I would have warned Gertie, but I had no idea she would be arriving this afternoon."

"It's alright, Perry." Burger sighed, walking back to the chair. "It is quite a shock. I just wonder what the people of Los Angeles are going to think when they find out I've really been alive and it's been kept from them."

"They'll understand the reason for the continued deception, once they know everything," Perry said.

xxxx

Paul sighed in exhausted exasperation. For the last several hours he had been all over Los Angeles and its many subdivisions, compiling a list of voice actors and their homes and tackling each name and address one by one. So far there had been nothing of use.

Everyone had been bewildered by the idea of someone impersonating Mr. Burger for the argument and asked why such a thing was even suspected. He had been told more than once that it was in bad taste to be asking such questions after the murder and that he should respect the dead. But he had been given various lists of other capable actors anyway. The hard part was narrowing it down.

He was more than willing to call it quits for the day. The next name on the list, however, was just a block or two over. And, he supposed, it would not hurt to try just one more.

A few minutes later he pulled up in front of the simple but nice house. A young woman with soft blonde hair was outside, peering into the mailbox. Preoccupied with its contents, she did not even seem to notice Paul cutting the engine and getting out of the car.

"Hello," Paul greeted as he drew closer. "I'm Paul Drake, a private detective . . ."

The woman jumped a mile. "Oh! I'm sorry, Mr. Drake," she exclaimed. "You startled me." She turned, holding the day's mail in her hands. "You say you're a private detective?"

"Yeah," Paul nodded. "Are you Carole Hyde?"

"Hyde, yes, that's me." She smiled. "So, what can I do for you, Mr. Drake? I would think my life would be highly uninteresting to a private detective. I just got back from dubbing in a character's voice for a new Japanese anime series they've brought over this year. And that's the most excitement I tend to get around here." She shrugged. "I don't even have a steady beau."

Paul grinned. "Well, actually it's your professional life I'm interested in, Miss Hyde."

Her eyebrows rose. "Really? Why?"

_Here goes everything,_ Paul thought to himself. Aloud he said, "I'm trying to find someone who knows a voice actor good enough to impersonate the district attorney's voice."

Carole's eyebrows shot up all the more, a typical reaction. "What on earth for?" she asked.

Paul sighed, leaning on the mailbox. "I was hired by someone who thinks the argument overheard at the district attorney's house may have been staged," he said. Choosing his words with care he added, "There's evidence that the body was already dead when the argument was taking place."

Genuinely surprised, Carole gazed at him for a long moment. "Is that so," she breathed. Gathering her wits, she turned her attention to the stack of mail and began shuffling through it. "I wish I could help you, Mr. Drake."

"You don't know anyone," Paul guessed.

She looked up again. "I don't know anyone who's _alive,_" she emphasized.

Now it was Paul's turn to stare. "You mean you know someone who's _not_ alive?" he said in stunned shock.

She gave a thoughtful nod. "I think so anyway," she said. "I remember Don was always amazing at voices, even though he'd never had any official training and didn't voice-act for a living. Once, a few months ago, I ran across him at a party and he did an incredible imitation of the district attorney's voice. As far as I could tell, it was spot-on."

Paul blinked in surprise. "Who's Don?"

"Donald Rite," Carole elaborated. "The man who was the first victim of this horrible serial killer."


	10. Arthur

**Chapter Ten**

Back at the office, Perry was still in deep thought over Marnie Wagner's statements. He frowned, absently toying with his pen as he ran the facts of the case through his mind for the umpteenth time. There was still something missing, some important element that he was overlooking. But what was it?

"Hamilton," he spoke at last, "in the car you said you didn't know anything about Harold Arthur."

"I don't," Burger retorted. "He's never made any trouble for the law, so my office has no interest in his business affairs."

"And yet all these people who have had a connection with him are somehow mixed up in _this_ affair," Perry said.

"I can't explain that," Burger said.

Della looked up from her notepad. "So you don't think it's a coincidence, Perry?"

"No, I don't." Perry idly gazed at his own notepad. "Harold Arthur," he mused aloud. "Harold Arthur. . . ." He started scratching something out on the paper. Della and Mr. Burger peered over his shoulders in bewildered curiosity.

"Perry," Della gasped when she saw what he was writing, "are you thinking that . . ."

"It's just a thought, Della," Perry said. "I don't have any proof."

"What would be the reason for a deception like this?" Burger exclaimed.

"Let's see if we can find some," Perry said. He reached for the computer.

xxxx

"Are you sure this is the place?"

The fisherman gave a vigorous nod to Lieutenant Tragg's question. "Yes, sir!" he declared. "Last night I saw a woman stumbling out of this warehouse right here. I remember because it's diagonal from my boat."

Tragg hurriedly wrote in his notepad. "Did you call to her or try to talk with her at all?"

"I called, but she didn't hear me," the fisherman said. "She was too fixed on getting away, so I figured I'd better let her."

"Didn't you find it strange to see someone running out of a warehouse in the middle of the night?" Tragg wondered.

"I did at that," the witness nodded. "But I didn't think it was my business. And then I got busy with my catch and forgot about it."

Tragg frowned, displeased. "What if someone had started chasing after her? Would you have decided it was your business then?"

The fisherman paused, considering the query. "I don't rightly know," he said. "Maybe, if it looked like he wanted to hurt her."

"Did she seem already hurt when she ran out?"

Now there was a longer pause. "If I get right down to it, I guess that's probably why she was stumbling." Uncomfortable under Tragg's disapproving gaze he hurried on. "Well, she's gonna be okay, isn't she?"

"It looks that way," Tragg said. "Unfortunately, without any help from you." He gestured at the warehouse, where Sergeant Nichols and two officers were entering. "Have you seen anything else strange over here the last few days?"

"Not really, and that's the truth, sir," the man hastened to add. "Just people goin' in and out and bringing boxes sometimes. Regular storing activity and all that."

"Could you describe them?" Tragg asked with little hope.

"Afraid not," was the expected reply. "Except . . . well, one of them was tall and had a suit and sunglasses. I thought it was kinda funny to see someone at the docks like that, but I figured it was some businessman inspecting his stuff."

"Oh, you did." Tragg closed his notepad. "Well, thank you for your information. I'll let you know if we need you again."

"Yes, sir," the fisherman said with a nod. "I'm happy to help the police."

_Probably only so he won't get in any more trouble with us,_ Tragg could not help thinking.

He walked over to the warehouse as Nichols came out. "Anything?"

Nichols shook his head. "If they were in there, they've cleared out. We only found this." He held up an evidence bag with a ruby-red button inside. "It could be from Anne Harding's coat. She had a red coat when she staggered into the hospital."

Tragg studied it for a moment. "Get it back to headquarters and have it processed," he ordered. "We'll find out if it belongs to Ms. Harding."

Nichols nodded and hurried to the squad car.

Sighing, Tragg wandered inside the vacant warehouse. This case was a real doozy. And Nichols was right—the warehouse seemed to be void of anything. The few crates still in the room were empty. But at least, perhaps, they could be dusted for fingerprints.

He stared in surprise upon gazing into the last of the crates. There was something stuck in the corner. Reaching down, he carefully lifted a piece of torn red silk. It looked like part of an expensive tie. It was not much, but it was something.

xxxx

Mr. Burger leaned back, staring at the computer screen in irritation but not in surprise. "There's nothing in the witness file that corroborates your idea, Perry," he said. "In fact, there's nothing that sounds suspicious at all."

"Except for that mention of the property he owns in the Sierras," Perry said. "That's where Miss Wagner said the Vaughen family had actually gone."

"A lot of people own property in the Sierras," Burger objected. "By itself that doesn't mean anything."

"Of course it doesn't," Perry agreed. "We need to do a little more digging."

At that moment the door burst open and Paul dashed into the office. "Perry!" he exclaimed.

Both Perry and Burger looked up. "What is it, Paul?" Perry asked. "You look like you hit on something big."

"I think I did," Paul said. He made his way to the desk and leaned forward on it. "Perry, Donald Rite was an amateur voice actor! _And_ a friend of his says he did a spot-on impersonation of Burger at a party."

Now Burger looked surprised. "But Donald Rite was one of the victims," he exclaimed. "Why would he be mixed up in this?"

"I don't know, but it's too weird a coincidence," Paul said.

"I agree." Perry handed Paul a piece of paper. "Paul, Mr. Rite owns property in the Sierra Mountains, where the Vaughens supposedly went."

Paul stared at it. "And you want me to find out more about it," he concluded.

"Yes," Perry nodded. "I believe we've latched on to something here."

"I don't know what, but after this I'm game," Paul said. He went towards the private exit. "I'll get right on it."

Perry chased after him. "Oh, and Paul?" He held up the sheet from the notepad. "This is something else I was wondering about."

Paul's eyes bugged out. "You're kidding," he said in disbelief.

"I'm quite serious," Perry said. "I would like to have another talk with Miss Wagner."

"Well, you'll have to take that up with Tragg," Paul said. "But meanwhile, I'll see if I can find out anything about this, too." Shaking his head, he opened the door and stepped through, closing it behind him.

Both attorneys watched him depart. "Well, what do you think now, Hamilton?" Perry wondered.

"I think this is preposterous," Burger shot back. "But I want to know if there's anything to it. If Rite isn't dead either, then as weird as it is, I guess he _could_ have impersonated me for that argument."

"Indeed," Perry nodded. "We just need to figure out why. Was he being blackmailed too?"

"If he was, he's the only victim it was happening to," Burger said. "Unless Anne Harding isn't telling everything. She never did say why she acted strangely about that threatening phone call she got."

"I know." Perry studied the monitor for another moment. "And whatever is going on, Charlie Vaughen is right in the center of it."

"The secret has to be part of Charlie Vaughen's case somehow," Burger said.

"Let's go through the transcript of the trial again," Perry said. "There must be something we've overlooked."

At that moment Della entered the office, carrying several cartons of take-out. "Well, you shouldn't try figuring it out without dinner," she said, setting the cartons on the desk. "As usual, none of us have been eating enough on this case."

Perry glanced up. "Thank you, Della," he smiled. "You're just in time; you can help us go over Charlie Vaughen's trial again. Three pairs of eyes are better than two."

Della sighed, but smiled as well. "Alright, Chief," she said. "What are we looking for?"

"Anything that sounds out of place or otherwise strange," Perry said, slightly occupied as Hamilton brought up his digital copy of the transcript.

xxxx

After nearly two hours, they had only managed to turn up the scantest possible evidence.

"I can't help noticing how reluctant Mrs. Vaughen was to discuss her husband," Perry remarked, setting the now-empty take-out carton aside.

Della nodded. "Then she finally said that he was seriously injured in a car accident several years ago and never fully recovered." She looked to Perry. "Perry, do you think she was hiding something?"

"It wouldn't surprise me," Perry said.

"Look at this," Hamilton spoke, pointing at the screen. "Where I asked her if that husband was Charlie's father. She hesitated for some time before saying he was."

"And even when you mentioned her reluctance, she stuck to her story," Perry noted.

"She was nervous the rest of the time she was being questioned," Burger said. "I tried to find out if she had been married before, but I didn't have any luck."

"I wonder why it would matter to her if she told," Della said. "It shouldn't be anything to be ashamed of."

"Maybe that would depend on the man," Perry said. "Or maybe she had been in an intimate relationship without having been married."

Della sighed. "There wouldn't be any way to trace that, especially since she kept Charlie instead of adopting him out."

"We could be reading too much into this," Hamilton said. "Maybe she really wasn't hiding any dark secret. It's possible that she just didn't want to talk about her husband's injuries. And she was probably ashamed of him being Charlie's father, after Charlie turned out the way he did."

"That's certainly possible," Perry agreed.

Hamilton scrolled through until he came to Donald Rite's examination. ". . . I just remembered something else," he said. "I haven't thought about it in ages. For all of Terry Rite's talk about how his father wanted to do something important, and how testifying was his first chance to do that, Donald didn't act like he wanted to be at that trial. And when the verdict was passed down, he looked outright sick."

"That's so strange," Della said. "Didn't he only see Charlie for a few minutes when he found that murder scene?"

"That's what he said," Hamilton answered. "He said he didn't know Charlie at all."

The telephone rang, jarring them out of their thoughts. Perry reached for it. "Hello?"

"Perry, I've got big news . . . again," Paul's voice came over the receiver. "I don't know how you figure out these things. Donald Rite owns the cabin the Vaughens are staying at. I called several other people who have cabins up there and they've all said the same thing."

"Good work, Paul," Perry congratulated. "And what about that other matter?"

"I haven't found out anything about that," Paul sighed. "So we still don't know what connection Rite has with the Vaughen family."

"On the contrary," Perry said. "I'm sure we can resolve this with two very simple visits."

"I'm guessing you've given up on talking to Marcus Waden again," Paul said.

"Oh yes. That wouldn't do any good," replied Perry. "What I have in mind is questioning Marnie Wagner . . . and then paying a call on Harold Arthur."

Paul gave a low whistle. "Well, good luck," he said. "I'll try to meet you for at least one of those. But don't think Arthur will see you. He runs his mansion like a taut ship."

"I think he'll see us," Perry said cleverly. "Once he knows why we're there."

xxxx

Paul was right about the Arthur mansion. It stood behind tall, brass gates, large and imposing at the back of a spacious property. Several hedges clustered around the front of the house, further shielding it from the world around it.

"The gates are always locked," Paul said from the back of Perry's car. "And don't touch them, even by accident. They're charged with electricity!"

Perry glanced back. "I hope you didn't discover that firsthand," he said in concern.

"No, fortunately," Paul said. "I pressed the intercom button and talked to the gardener. He warned me."

Now Perry reached over and pressed the button. After a moment of crackling static a gruff voice came over the speaker. "Yes, what is it?"

"Perry Mason and company to see Mr. Arthur," Perry announced.

"Mr. Arthur sees no one if they don't have an appointment," the voice growled.

"We're here to talk with him about Charlie Vaughen," Perry said calmly.

There was a long silence. ". . . Just a minute."

The gates began to creak open. Paul looked on, amazed. "I can't believe it," he said. "He really is going to see us."

"But is that good or bad?" Della wondered in concern.

Mr. Burger was wondering the same thing. He stayed on guard as Perry drove through the gates and up the twisting driveway. They were able to park without incident, but he was not at ease.

He reached and caught Perry's arm. "Perry. We could be walking into a trap," he warned.

"We just might be," Perry answered. "So let's be alert for any tricks he might try to pull."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Paul declared.

The group got out of the car and walked towards the porch. Just as they came to the stairs and began climbing up, the front doors opened.

Paul eyed them with nervousness. "Someone _did_ open them, right?"

Della regarded him in amusement, despite feeling uneasy herself. "Don't tell us the brave Paul Drake is afraid of ghosts," she teased.

"No, and I hope I never have to see one and find out," Paul shot back.

"A living person opened those doors, unless they're controlled by electricity," Perry said.

"You know, one of the logical flaws in the theory of Schrodinger's cat is the concept that the animal is both dead and alive until you open the sealed box to see which."

The quartet stopped short at the sound of the new voice. Mr. Burger stared into the visible entryway, seeking the speaker. "I know that voice," he exclaimed.

Perry looked to him. "Is it . . . ?"

"The difference between that theory and myself is that it won't matter whether you look in the box or not; I'm still both dead and alive."

Mr. Burger moved ahead of the others, stepping into the parlor. Perry, with Della and Paul right behind, hastened to keep up. Standing in the shadows of the room was a silhouetted figure.

"You're Harold Arthur, aren't you?" Burger said. "And you're also Donald Rite." _Just like Perry thought,_ he added to himself. _Marnie Wagner had no idea. But somehow Perry figured it out._

The figure nodded. "Yes. And since Donald Rite is supposed to be dead, that's how I can be both dead and alive at once."

He pressed a button and the doors closed behind his guests, who glanced back uneasily. But Perry quickly returned his attention to the man they had been seeking. "You've been behind this entire scheme, haven't you, Mr. Rite?" He walked closer to Mr. Burger, tensely watching their host.

"Everything was my idea." Rite sounded tortured now. "I even determined that I would be the first victim, in order to throw suspicion off of myself."

"But what's your connection with the Vaughen family?" Burger asked. "Did you perjure yourself on the witness stand three years ago?"

"Perjure myself, how?" Rite returned.

"When you said you'd only ever seen Charlie Vaughen for a few minutes," Burger said. "Maybe you really knew him a lot better than that. You've even been letting the Vaughens use your cabin in the Sierras. Are you related to them, Mr. Rite?"

Rite's eyes narrowed, flickering with both pain and hatred. Instead of answering, he looked at the balcony above them, as if expecting to see someone there. It was vacant. With one hand he absently fumbled with his red tie, which seemed to be missing a piece.

"Mr. Rite. To be more specific, _you_ are Charlie Vaughen's father, aren't you."

Everyone turned to look at Perry in shock. "What?" Paul gasped.

A slight, self-depreciating smirk slipped across Rite's face. "I should have guessed that you would figure it out, Mr. Mason," he said. "It's true. I married Celia secretly years earlier, in Mexico. It didn't work out and we had the marriage annulled."

He glanced to Mr. Burger. "But I wasn't lying on the witness stand, Mr. Prosecutor," he said. "When I saw Charlie and the people he'd killed . . . that was the first time I had ever actually seen him in person. I didn't know him."

"So why did you do all this?" Burger persisted. "Just because he was sentenced to an institution? That's where he belonged. He needed help!"

"I've hated having been the one who sent him there," Rite said, his voice dangerous and low. "And I've hated everyone who had a hand in it. Charlie wouldn't have stood for it. I decided I wouldn't, either. That's why I did it. And I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"You're crazy," Paul said in horror. "You've been going after all these innocent people just because of this?"

"They're all guilty in my eyes," Rite said. "I was never able to spend time with my son. Now if I want to see him, I'll have to visit him in that wretched madhouse!"

He turned his attention back to Mr. Burger. "Other than myself, I've hated you the most, Mr. Prosecutor," he hissed. "You asked the questions that everyone had to answer, that _I _had to answer. You made me seal my son's fate!"

"I was doing my _job,_" Hamilton answered, his tone clipped and angry. "And it needed to be done. Would you have wanted your son to continue roaming the streets, killing anyone possible on impulse? You know, the irony here is that he could have killed _you._"

"I would have told him the truth," Rite said. "He wouldn't have laid a finger on me then. He's always been very protective of his family."

"You don't know that he would have believed you," Hamilton pointed out. "Or maybe he would have, but he also would have hated you for not being there."

"I couldn't help it!" Rite's strangled voice was rising. "Celia kept him from me!"

"Would that have made a difference to him?" Hamilton wondered. "He wasn't rational. And neither are you!"

Della stared at the unfolding confrontation in alarm. Perry and Paul were tense, expecting an explosion any moment. From Mr. Burger's stiff posture, he was as well.

Donald Rite's eyes flashed as he fairly trembled in anger. "I _hate _you, Mr. Prosecutor!" he roared. "I hate you with all that I've got in me. That's why I went to extra lengths with you and set up the faked argument. I wanted them to be sure you were dead, surer than for any of the others! I wanted to have you around with me and watch you suffer. For all the good it did. You got away, even managing to knock out that idiot Manning during the first struggle over his gun, when he ran you off the road."

Burger's eyes widened in surprise. He still remembered none of what had happened during that part of the evening.

"And you kept getting away. But it's going to be different now," Rite vowed. "You won't get away this time. Now, I'm going to see that something lasting is done about my hatred. You're going to die slowly and in excruciating pain, unable to think of anything else."

"You're making a mistake!" Burger retorted. But it was clear by this point that Rite was beyond all reasoning power.

"Hamilton! Look out!"

Perry cried out at the same moment a shot was fired from the balcony above. He tackled Hamilton, sending them both crashing to the marble floor. Paul and Della also dove out of the way. The bullet embedded in the tile where Mr. Burger had been standing.

Two more shots rang out at the same time, one from Rite's position and one from the doorway. Perry looked over. Lieutenant Tragg was standing in the entryway, his gun pointed at the balcony. Derrick Manning, the cold-hearted assassin, fell over the railing to fatally hit the hard floor below.

The sight caused Rite to lose whatever sanity he had left. "No!" he howled. "No, I won't have it! The prosecutor has to die! He has to _die!_" He fired in Tragg's direction, only to be stopped by a bullet from Sergeant Brice's gun. He fell back, grabbing his arm.

Perry watched all of this from his position on the floor. At last he turned to Hamilton. "Are you alright?" he asked in concern.

"I'm fine," Hamilton, although shaken, said in reply.

"Good," Perry smiled. He sobered as the police hurried in to seize Donald Rite. "I believe now it's all over."


	11. Epilogue

**Notes: Thanks so much to everyone who has been interested in this story! It has been a very fun venture for me and I believe I've come out of it with a greater understanding of the characters. I've gone back in several chapters and added additional scenes now that I feel I can write them better and it's possible to finally expand on some elements of the story I wanted to bring out more. These scenes are in chapters 2, 3, 4, and 8, but I have tweaked little things in several other chapters as well.**

**I may write more for our beloved _Perry_ characters in the future. Meanwhile, please follow me at Parkavenuebeat dot Blogspot dot com, for my thoughts on the characters, actors, episodes, and occasionally, writing _Perry_ fanfiction. Thank you all again!**

**Epilogue**

It was late that night when the quintet gathered in Perry's office to ponder over the case.

"What Donald Rite told us was mostly all there was to it," Perry said. "He couldn't stand living with the fact that he had had a hand in sending his son to an institution. So he spent all the time since plotting his revenge on everyone involved."

"And he thought he would bring in the number three somehow, since it was Charlie's favorite number," Della guessed.

"That's right," Perry nodded. "When it neared the three-year mark Rite began to blackmail the people he wanted to have help him. It was just sheer coincidence that Marcus Waden made his empty threat around the same time, but Rite used it to his advantage, hoping that everyone would believe Waden was responsible at first."

"And he asked through letters if any of the people he was blackmailing knew a professional hitman," Burger put in. "Marnie Wagner told him, again in a letter, about her friend Derrick Manning."

"I wouldn't expect an assassin to have any conscience, but I'd have thought Donald Rite would," Della said, the disgust and anger obvious in her tone. "I can't feel sorry for him. It's his wife and brother and Terry I feel sorry for."

Perry nodded, solemn. They had gone with Lieutenant Tragg when he had traveled to the house to tell the Rites about what Donald had done. It had been a draining and heart-wrenching experience for everyone involved.

"And then there's the innocent people who were being killed in my and Anne Harding's and Rite's places," Burger said in further distaste.

Tragg nodded. "We should have the proper identification on the other bodies soon," he said. "As for the medical examiner, I'm afraid he may have been slated to be next. He disappeared, according to Miss Wagner, because he felt sick over killing Colin Worth. Derrick Manning was tracking him down to get rid of him before he could tell the police. As far as we know, Manning never caught up. But we aren't sure."

He glanced to Perry. "What made you suspect that Rite was behind everything, Perry?"

"It was mostly guesswork at first," Perry admitted. "There were certain odd coincidences, such as the Vaughens vacationing at Rite's cabin, and strange things said by both Celia Vaughen and Donald Rite during the trial. And then I kept wondering what connection Harold Arthur could have with the case. I knew there had to be something, when so many people involved had worked for him in some capacity. Finally it came to me. _Harold Arthur_ was a fake name. And it contained a clue." He held up the piece of paper he had started writing on when the idea had first struck him.

_Arthur = Author = Write = Rite_

"By then I was sure.

"Not to mention there was also that strange piece of torn paper we had a copy of," he added. "The mysterious third line, where it said 'te to know,' could have said 'Rite to know', meaning that he was aware of the planned murders of Mr. Burger and others."

"That was quite clever," Tragg remarked, "using wordplay to get at the truth of the matter."

Perry smiled. "That's one thing I'm good at, Tragg."

"It's so ironic," Della said. "Terry said that his father had never made it big at anything and here he was, secretly a successful tycoon."

Perry nodded. "He never made public appearances because he didn't want anyone to know his real identity, not even his family," he said. "He lived a double life for a long time."

"Then, after Charlie Vaughen was sentenced, he added a third life to that list," Burger spoke up. "That of a cold-hearted murderer. He'll probably end up in an institution himself."

"Oh, by the way, remember how Anne Harding acted strange about that threatening phone call she got?" Paul said suddenly.

"Yes," Perry said, blinking in surprise. "Did you find out something about that?"

"Did I! Apparently she was being blackmailed too. She didn't know who was calling, but they told her about some unflattering skeletons in her closet." Paul crossed his arms. "But what do you know, she couldn't be bought. She told them she wouldn't help out with anything criminal, no matter what happened to her. Then they hung up on her and she ended up kidnapped."

"She should have come to the police," Tragg frowned.

"Well, she probably would have, only they threatened her sister's life if she did," Paul said. "She figured if they knew all about her past, they had the power to back up their threats. She was willing to let herself get hurt, but not her sister."

"Which was probably exactly what Donald Rite wanted," Perry remarked.

"It was," Paul said. "She was pretty high on his list of people he hated, since she was the state's star witness."

"It would have hurt her more for him to have taken Trisha," Della said.

Paul nodded. "He just wanted to personally torture Anne and all of them," he said. "So he wanted her, not Trisha."

"And after he killed her and everyone else, he was going to kill himself," Hamilton said.

Paul cringed. "That guy's got problems."

"That's an understatement, I'm afraid," Tragg said. "Oh, while we're on the subject, Rite confessed to how he got the body that would substitute for him past the police guard and into his house."

"Do tell, Lieutenant," Perry said.

"Well, apparently Rite had already had the poor man killed by a blow to the head before Manning made that fake threatening telephone call to him," Tragg said. "So they hid it in a locked cabinet before the police arrived. During a time when Rite was alone with only the police guard on the premises, he dragged the body out into the living room and used a gun with a silencer to disfigure the face. Then he snuck out the back door."

"Leaving Terry Rite to find the body and think it was him," Della concluded in repulsion.

Tragg nodded. "Exactly."

"There's still one other thing I don't get," Paul said, looking to Perry. "We never did find out who called to warn you that someone was out to get you."

"That's right," Della gasped. "And he was being shot at! We don't even know if he's alive."

Perry glanced over, unaffected. "Why, certainly he's alive," he said. "That was Mr. Burger." He looked to the prosecutor. "Am I right, Hamilton?"

"You're right, Perry," Burger returned. "That's how Manning managed to shoot me in the arm, when I was calling you on the phone."

"How did you figure that one out?" Paul marveled.

"Simple," Perry said. "For the longest time we thought that I must have some connection to the case. But more and more it looked like I couldn't have. And if that wasn't it, and if I wasn't getting too close to the truth, then there had to be another reason why I would be threatened. I started to wonder if I was being used. And I was right."

"Used?" Paul echoed in confusion.

"Why?" Della asked.

"Manning never wanted me at all," Perry said. "Neither did Rite. They wanted Mr. Burger. To that end, Manning decided to draw Mr. Burger out by threatening to kill me. He knew that if he did, Hamilton would come out of hiding either to use a payphone or to try to get a signal on his cellphone, in order to warn me. When Donald Rite realized what had happened and that Hamilton was still alive, he decided to hire the second assassin to actually go after both of us to try to throw us off his trail. He hoped we would end up chasing some dead-end thinking I must have been involved or they wouldn't go after me."

"But how would the first assassin know that Burger was even in hearing range when he told his plan?" Paul wondered.

"He didn't," Burger said. "He was taking a risk."

Della perked up. "So the reason the call didn't register and the connection was so bad was that you were using your cellphone on that mountain?" she guessed.

"Yes." Burger looked to her. "By the time I got to where there was a signal, the battery was almost dead. While I was talking to you, Manning caught up and shot at me twice. I had to take off running again."

Paul shook his head. "Boy, I guess you're glad that's all over with."

"I am," Burger answered. "But what I'll have to do tomorrow won't be easy either."

Tragg gave a sage nod. "You'll have to call a press conference to let the good people of Los Angeles County know you're still among the living," he said.

"That'll be the strangest speech you've ever made," Paul remarked.

"Well, I'm just relieved you'll be around to make it," Della said.

Everyone fully concurred.

"Say, did you ever remember what else happened when you were run off the road?" Paul asked out of curiosity.

"No, I haven't," Burger told him. "As best as I can put it together, I must have somehow caught Manning off-guard enough to end up struggling with him. The gun likely discharged harmlessly into the air at that point. I can't figure out how I knocked him out; maybe I hit him with it. Then I probably ran up to the road and hailed a cab. The driver's testimony about what happened next is probably true. Manning must have came to and chased after us until we ended up at the mountain."

"Where you jumped out and ran off to try to save the driver's life," Paul put in.

Mr. Burger looked a bit awkward at the reminder. ". . . I have no memory of going up to the cabin," he went on. "Marnie Wagner said she opened the door for me and then went into the bedroom when someone called her, wanting her out of the cabin for a while. Maybe that was Donald Rite. And maybe that's when I witnessed the showdown between Leroy Fielding and Colin Worth. It was probably going on when I entered, but I just don't remember. And I'd rather forget what happened next."

"I don't blame you," Perry said. "But your testimony will be key during the trial."

"Yes, I know," Burger returned. "And I'm looking forward to putting Rite away for a long time."

"I believe all of us will enjoy that," Tragg surmised.

"No kidding," Paul said, shaking his head. Della, still furious over what Donald Rite had done to Perry and Mr. Burger, as well as to his own family, fully agreed.

Burger turned to Perry. "Great work, Perry," he congratulated. "And thanks for saving my life back there."

"You intended to do the same for me, even though Manning wasn't really after me," Perry smiled. "I'd say we're even."

"Fair enough," Burger said.

He turned to Lieutenant Tragg. "Manning or Rite would have still shot me, and probably everyone else, if you hadn't come in right then," he said.

Perry nodded. "That was excellent timing, Tragg."

"We could have used you a bit sooner," Paul remarked.

"Unfortunately, we had to wait long enough for Rite to reveal everything over the miniature microphone Mr. Burger was carrying," Tragg said. "In Rite's unhinged condition, if we had gone in too soon he would have been liable to have started shooting then and there."

Burger nodded. "I wouldn't put anything past him." He looked back to Perry. "Oh, and Perry . . . while it was good to work with you on this case, let's see to it that the next time it's not under such dangerous circumstances."

Perry smiled. "I'm quite agreeable to that, Hamilton."

The two lawyers shook hands.


End file.
